BIGGGGGGGER!

Here is what I want: I want a huge sculpture installation. As big and as prominent as possible.

I'm thinking like in Grand Central or on the Empire state building, In Central Park and Tompkins Square... Washington Square.

I want hands that are sometimes bloody and sometimes not. There should be a set of hands that somebody can sleep in - like in the palm. That person could be in charge of having to paint it bloody every once in a while and wash it.

Of course this is not the social sculpture, it's advertising for it. We all know, that advertising needs to be big.

The people who did "bloody hands" changed. I changed. It truly initiates a process and from what I observe, good changes. More people need to do it. Oh yes! BIGGGGGGGER!!!!! :)

So much more blood.

It might look like this Bloody Hands thing is not going anywhere further, but it does big time. It's part of my life. I live. I meet people and we talk, sometimes we bond. I bond with the unworthy too. I just don't trust them, it's easy.  I hold their hands these days, when they make a call from my phone. That I learned.

I meet people who have blood on their hands. Metaphorically of course. Well, who doesn't. It makes such a difference to see it. Ecce homo.

Daniel Macchio, 2011

Sometimes it's my blood. But you know what? It's O.K. I'm not going to let anybody off the hook. You can make up for it. It's easy and you know it. I might not want to hang with you, if you're my enemy, if you owe me. For what it's worth, I have quite cool enemies - those who took, and did not pay me back yet. You might owe me money, respect, love you saw yourself short of. You'll give me that. And in the meanwhile I'll make you see the monster you are. Deal with it. So beautiful.

Some people love to owe me. They love to see, how huge morons and assholes they are. And I like to smile at them. I like to hear them say "You are the last who deserves that". I don't, how right you are.

Become clear. Become who you are. Take your finger out of the hole you poked into my heart. Damn right, my heart that was. Haha. What? You thought it was about money, or a book, rape, murder, stolen time, a sandwich? We're not strangers as much as you'd love to be a stranger to me. I'm not letting you. You suffer because of the invisible matches I'm holding your eyelids open with. How righteous of me, right :)? Suffer as long as you need to. Your choice. You're by yourself... not.

I'm not going to leave the house anymore without my red paint. Somebody took my sharpie. I need to get a new sharpie too now. That is also always in my pocket.

It's the moments. There are these moments when a sharpie holds the moment for just a bit longer. When there need to be writings on the wall. Or dots in a face. Or red paint on hands longing for innocence and redemption. I can give you that.

You're not such a bad person, maybe after all.

Sex does not make you filthy.

Of course you are Jesus too.

I can see your pain.

Make a mess with me.

Red is the color of love.

Oh yeah, I'll go in there deep. It's a ride. And it's your depth. Come with me or sod off! One way or the other is good. I'm not judging you, but I want you in. Without hunger and passion and longing for me your gentleness means nothing.

(Who was I talking to (some insecure I hear think)? Well, of course it was you. What, you think you're special? Of course you are. Special to me? Maybe. You'd know if you made yourself special to me. You'd know, if you made yourself dear to me. You'd know, if you are my enemy.)