These Things

I've been meaning to say something.

I'd love to go on and on about how artists aren't conduits

or special. We are not freezers of bears. We aren't

shaman or conjurers and nothing we do is mysterious.

I could just go on and on about how people are like

"it just flowed through me" and "it happened" and

"enlightenment" and, you know, the general

mystery thing and super good, good thing. It's like

everyone is special. I mean, like artists

as prophets and whatnot, getting all deep

in the belly of the goodness shark, gnashing away at injustice

and silliness, being better, being more than, being

the Jones'. O how I hate the idea of Talent and Exceptional

and Gifted and Blessed and Touched. I could go on and on.

Or, I've also been thinking about family and how it happens

that one has one and one lives with one and so on. But then

other things happen, like not going on and on. Like not

saying these things. Like not anything happening.

At those moments I end up slightly confused, looking

at myself in a mirror and feeling like a dead god.