I daydream too much. I close my eyes and can smell wet ink, metal and blood. IN my head a bloody battle has already been waged. Words wielded by personified shrieking Muses battling personified shrieking guilt about real life and a workhorse mentality.
Heavy casualties on both sides.
Under that overwrought metaphor lies an important truth. Deep down I want to do nothing except make art.
In my soul making art is making love to the universe. It is a sacred, high calling.
But all of my years on this Earth have not taught me to have faith that I could be the vehicle for such holy work.
I never see the artist I want to be in the mirror.
Sometimes I’m still too paralyzed by the guilt over my percieved artistic failures and ignorance.
I feel stupid.
I feel like some absurd intruder dabbling rough fingers on fine silk and ruining it.
Most of the time I have faith in my capacity to love, in my capacity to create and be this holy special creature with a divine purpose.
I suppose that should tell me the truth of the thing.
That this lust to make art/love is in my secret tender heart and that it wants out.
I wish I could print better. Expression English or pictures the divine brand of madness boiling in me.
I could point to Ecstatics and other people so full of this kind of madness but it’s not enough.
If I could cut open my own soft belly and spill out the secret joy I would.
Instead I will struggle.
I will bleed on the pages of my cheap tattered notebook.
I will write.
I will love.
I will create.