8-25-10 10:30 PM riding the 131 home.

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.

I will wake and be the artist I dream of.


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