The true beauty of any living thing lies within its vulnerability, its acceptance of the possibilities of demise. In the essence of beauty lies kernels of disaster...the seed of tragedy...the loose bolt on the wing of an airliner, the monkey wrench in the carburetor of a family stationwagon, the virus passed through embraces, the impulse to dominate that which cannot be understood. The human condition on every level beckons the artistry of the saboteur. Those individulas who are inspired not only to undermine existing structures, but who are willing to sabotage themselves internally with no regret or second thought. Individuals of exceptional sensitivity and individual courage who upset the order within themselves empowering their souls to clear the psyche of the numbing hum of the oiled machine to make room for a forest clearing alive with sunlight and the song of sparrows. Arthur Rimbaud, Jean Genet, Celine, Bosch, Blake, Antonin Artaud, Sitting Bull, William Burroughs, Charles Manson, Jesus Christ -- all Saboteurs.

The circus clown with the machine gun smile is sabotage. The deli worker who purposely shaves a piece of his finger off into a 1/4 pound of imported ham is sabotage. The painter who begins painting a horse and sees an angel is sabotage. Without exquisite disorder we would have only regulation boredom. Without chaos, beauty would be base housing architecture. The world began with a single blast of random sabotage. As the universe cools as it shrinks, another dionysian clown stands facing the unquantifiable machines, grinning to himself while juggling the plans for our obsolescence. He thinks only one thought which is his mantra, "I love it when a plan falls apart."