A brick could be used to smash my bottled up rage, and a blanket could be laid down beforehand to catch the shards.
A blanket could be used to hide my shame and cover my insecurities. But so could a camouflaged condom.
A brick could be used as a boat, and due to the brick’s reputation of indestructibility, we could call the boat “The Titanic.” Surely a brick with that name would never sink.
Bricks could be used like trophies. And if we give them to everyone, just for participating, then collectively we could build a big House of Emptiness.
A blanket could be used in a secretive manner. What? I can’t just tell you how it could be used. What part of secretive don’t you understand?
A brick could be used to remind me of you. Of course, so could a photograph, but how am I supposed to lob a photo through your car’s windshield?
A brick could be inserted in your chest in place of your heart. And for just a couple thousand dollars more, an artificial heart could replace the brick.
A brick could be used as toilet paper—especially if you just shit a brick. You could shit and wipe your way to a wall of privacy.
A brick could be used in place of a parachute, and a blanket could be used as a permanent wall of a house. In both cases, the skydiver and home dweller would ideally be a politician.
A brick could be used as a period on a really large sentence. A blanket could be used as a really large tilde sign.
What I wish I had, is that I wish I was a little more Greek, in that I wish I could lose my North American driven attitude and that I could be a little bit more poetic and laissez faire.
A house with any kind of age will have dozens of stories to tell. I suppose if a novelist could live long enough, one could base an entire oeuvre on the lives that weave in and out of an antique house.
I was very excited about the idea that I could be an idealist, that I could be my age, the eager beaver who had hope in the justice system and the one who gets disappointed just like the audience.
At an early age, I started my own paper route. Once I saw how you could service people and do a good job and get paid for it, I just wanted to be the best I could be in whatever I did.
At 13, I realized that I could fix anything electronic. It was amazing, I could just do it. I started a business repairing radios. It grew to be one of the largest in Philadelphia.
Words to me were magic. You could say a word and it could conjure up all kinds of images or feelings or a chilly sensation or whatever. It was amazing to me that words had this power.
I was just blown away by everything my dad was doing, every play. It was amazing to be able to go as a young person to the theater and see these visuals and how creative it could be. More than anything it was realizing you could do that as a life pat...
If only we could persuade galleries to observe a fallow period in which, for two months every other year, new and old works of art could be sold in back rooms and all main galleries would be devoted to revisiting shows gone by.
When I was a teenager, my dad watched my films and told me I could go to art college and study animation. He made me see that I could do this for a living.
If people could see me the way I see myself - if they could live in my memories - would anyone love me?
If I could, I'd write a huge encyclopedia just about the words luck and coincidence
