I hate Pollack. That fucking asshole is always on my case. Constantly telling me that I rely way too much on figuration and objectivism. He'll say shit like, "that last painting I saw you working on, good, but it would be so much better if I couldn't read into all those figures or that it wasn't set in an interior space. Why do you anchor yourself to the perceived world?" Fuck him, and his fucking "perceived world." I'm not unsure enough of my own fucking work? And I need a drunk hack to question every move I make? FUCK HIM! And if I hear him say "I am nature," one more time, I'm going to show him 'nature' all right. But then again, that's probably what the fucking psychopath wants. Someone to end it all for him, for him - fucking coward.
So I woke up this morning only to find myself walking towards the Cedar Tavern in Grenwich Village NYC, in 1955! Don't ask me how I knew or how I also realized I was embodying Arshile Gorky (I took a look at the wallet in my back pocket). All I knew, after I shook my head from the initial shock and decided to allow myself to be taken in by the experience, was that I was to meet up with some friends at the bar around 5 o'clock. The occasion was purportedly to discuss a painting I've been struggling with. Or rather, we were going to attempt to discuss this particular painting that I've come close, several times, to ripping off its stretcher and give up painting once and for all, but inevitably, the conversation would turn to DeKooning's work, women, the latest sporting event, and eventually, Pollack.