the production of skin. if the skin i shed was art i would be so productive. but it's a production of infinite minute parchments making emptiness where a body would like to be, a continuous emptying, producing disgust and exhaustion. 
i had some control of what i made, particularly when i let myself go, without thinking too much of how things should go, or where things should be, representing me. i didn't know how to act in the common world or the art world, but i vaguely knew expression consisted in being consistent with not knowing, and not acting as if i did, or speculating how what i did would grant me entree, or some qualified freedom in the transactive world. i even felt the things i made had some tangential relation to who i might be. the things i made may be what i wanted, or things i might have been. or made similar to skin, trying to be viable, or seeking simple expression, in a qualified way to present and represent me. skin that turns to parchment, skin that at the beginning was, or might have been. i used to cut tiny letters from a book of the 19th century, a book of parchment leaves, or skin paper. the tiny letters would fly on careful errant breaths from my tiny tweezers. sometimes i would let them fall and make poems of chance collaged.
now i'm housebound producing this skin diary. what i produce is seemingly endless and the product is just what is left, the skin maker, this dry exhausted manufactory, me.