Puff sleeve

It's a little catastrophe-

each meager melody.

Artists are these hopeful bastards that live for the glow of storytelling.

Hopeful in that magic is real to them.

Bastards in that the actual making of magic renders them false.

Artists live for a mutual freedom that exists in the distance between a canvas and it's viewer.

The freedom for each to shed a pre-existing identity.

'Before I saw a Pollock, I thought his work was a busy mess. But when I turned the corner at the modern, I realized that I, in fact, was a busy mess.'

Who could be bold enough to suggest that we are unhappy or incomplete? Art.

Who could be innocent enough to plead for us to stop fighting and abusing ourselves? yes.

We are continually on the defense. Mostly from ourselves. We stand outside our own doors, waiting to let in. Waiting to be escorted to the dingy living room and offered a seat. We will most likely sit across from ourselves for quite some time. And then, on a a large breath, we will ask "Where have you been?" We will glance quickly to our aging knees and scratch the cold, neglected patch of skin behind the ear. the left ear. "Oh, I don't know."

We need a way of communicating with ourselves. Communication is the foundation of great relationships. The relationship most vital is that with oneself. If there is a lack of openness with oneself, an individual can begin making terrible, ill-informed decisions. Where we work. How hard we work. Why, then, we work. For whom we work. All a part of a persons identity. All part of a persons needs.

Art, turned outwards or kept in, is the soul manifest. We all need a way of safely breaking back in to ourselves.

ugh. more later.