Everybody is reading my diary

by Christos Polydorou

​Love trees, please. Imagine the bees without them. A tree in need is a tree indeed. I hug trees sometimes. Their solidity is comforting. 
Autumn.

Everybody is reading my diary. Third autumn in London. The one before that I wasn’t even calling autumn, but watching leaves turn to orange, yellow, and red, in Long Island City. And the autumn before that I was in Cyprus.

I made a short video of leaves hanging over a wall this afternoon. Above it is the sky. Behind the image, you can already hear the Baltic blackbird practising its mating song. It occurs to me that by writing publically rather than privately I seem to be provoking a kind of mating, or meeting, of my soul, to yours. That it is being put out there, as the expression river-runs, and as a result, there are aesthetic circumstances.

Why wait for the next generation to define the choices we made this autumn, our thoughts on the 30 days 30 songs website, whether Donald Trump is actually literally a big joke, why we all became chefs in our own kitchen, why we chose to live in big lonely cities broke for the sake of our art? Because we were in our element but we were not free and that was just nonsense.

Everybody is reading my diary. What is an artist? An artist is a person for whom their life and their art are not separate.

Everything matters until it doesn’t. But until then, and also following that point in time, everything matters.

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