I’m the worst kind of artist; the kind that
makes everybody an artist. What could
be worse than that? – Shri

Again, am not well; not writing to make sense:

Well, what can I say? I’m still engulfed.
I’m still typical atypical. I’m still not
considerate of some other nice people’s feelings.
But not all. So many angry a**holes out here.
Ruin my way. And think about Art.
Like how the architecture is not understood well.
Like not like phenomena are not thought well.
Like making Maria mad. Like not as mad as I
can ever be. Although I doubt she gets mad
often. I can resist.
Unfortunately, it does seem perhaps in the
future I write this, having had the experience, i.e.,
not by reason alone, a priori. However, being
inpatient I give and will say this: unfortunately,
it seems as if the creation is thought to be perfect,
must be perfect in the eye of the beholder, then it
follows a perfect work is necessary in the creator’s
mind. However deluded others may find this believe,
it seems necessary for the creator.
I haven’t thought much about installation. Not
at all really. The manner in which painting and installation
intersect is of great interest for the perfectionist. That is
all I have to say.

Then something about GAD67, axon, NMDA + AMPA,
Norepinephrine, GABA analogue, Risperdone, NRIs, 5HT-x,
catecholamines, etc.