Watching the Picasso documentary in art class—nine separate YouTube videos—I’m intercepting a message from the great guy himself (for any of you who know Picasso history, I use “great” here to mean his presence and existence was large and important). In my art class, everyone wants to know exactly what you’re thinking and what your project is. I never try to explain. But now, even if I wanted to, it wouldn’t translate.

What do I do to have a nine-part YouTube series about me? What do I do to have a random art class, in a small but growing town, analyze my life for an entire three weeks? What do I do?

I want, right then, to have a power that pours down, that even my haters can’t ignore, because what I have created is entirely inescapable. Once it has halted, I want to be alive in the watery concrete and sweaty windshields. I’ll drip down their cars while they flick a gear to wipe me away but the rain is necessary and doesn’t stop despite their good-for-nothing flicks, so neither will I.

Hello from the outside, sure. I can appreciate the warmth inside of a practical family vehicle. I have always liked them more when I am passing them on the freeway.
Am I doing enough?

Human me thinks so.

“What are you doing for your project?”

“I can’t really explain.” ♦