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.