A day in Golden Gate Park whereby the colors came at me like some kind of electric fist. I didn’t recognize the colors when they came, but they came almost as an act of aggression, a sort of narcissism, and they grabbed me meanly. And I saw them that day as they shoved me with their chest, knocked me down and stood over my grass-stained shoulders letting loose a gravelly howl.
Golden Gate Park to me feels like indignant colors in motion, glaring at the camera lens as if to say, “Don’t tempt me!”, and preening back its greased hair like a murderer on the high of his fatal ego trip. These images may seem benign, even rustic, but underneath is a rumbling of pure anger.
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