This is what I carried with me from that church, a manual on how to carry guilt, apply it like a balm upon one's work--have you heard this before? It becomes the distance between the artist and his work, or rather its byproduct. The danger is quitting all artistry to assuage the guilt by writing by hand a goddamn journal entry. One--I--cannot say the same for what appears online. As if it isn't me?
No, we've already gone through this.
It made little difference then whether it made any sense. Only now I'm made wretched for not writing, for not going on.
Of which Bible verse does that remind you? At any rate I lie.
That I haven't seen any of these Faces in years means I'll have help writing the persona. It had better not be me.
This is the tragedy:
It could be a mirage, a starving artist--twirling sticks!--since it's too late to drum. What's an artist doing being a drummer--
The tragedy...is that you never heard of this before. Course, go there now and it is a sad and incomplete tale, a story almost: until I am sick of the woods and old houses and realize that this thing wants continuity. Narrative. I refuse!
All the while, ever so distantly, wishing to live in the dark for two days maybe three, recovering from laser surgery (perhaps pathogenic ocular dissonance). I type and drum perhaps better when I cannot see. In the dark, redirected to heaven, I damn well create.
The aesthetic notional space is old news; for now, making it--this is far removed from what I've learned and it's a good thing, too. Else what subject could I have?
At least now I've got all the critical stuff surrounding and leading up to Hypertext, let's have it capitalized. It's got my audio tracks waiting, in the ether--trust...me. There will be dozens within the year, and each will be supremely worth listening to.
Prolific--you know.
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