I Killed the King With My Lies

Day before the exhibition opening. Sitting in my hotel room in Kensington waiting for the Queen.

..November 2005, Kensington, London…

Dear Mom:

I’m presently in London searching for the meaning of life. 24 hours into my crusade, I haven’t found any answers to why I’m here on this planet or why my accent doesn’t sounds as sophisticated as the British. At best I sound like a Times Square pimp.  At first I was concerned. But this maybe the break through that leads me to the answers. Will keep you updated.

As for my situation with the unruly Germans writing me, I was walking in the tube and a group of German’s passed by me. They didn’t recognize me in my new jacket and recently cut hair. On a brighter note, I successfully met with my friend with the silly hat. As always proceed with Caution.

I arrived in London on the day Tony Blair effectively lost his job. “It’s better to lose trying to do the right thing.” Is it that time again? That sully feeling is back in my stomach. The jackal of Doubt looms. He’s sitting next to me on the tube. Starring at my profile. I can feel the vapor from his gnarly snout brushing up against my neck. My confidence ebbing away with my mutterings.

Paule