Dear Charlie,
After all this time, the thought of you revisiting these pages seems so foreign of an idea to me. How many hours can one spend reading about obscure relations, of wounds and tongues? They are, in all honesty, nothing but links of frailty and survival.
A product of my midnight pause, without flag or label; Nothing to box or ship. This... is a life split in obstacles. It is my voice, how uninteresting it may be, it is mine and it is my movement. Barely perceptible. A fungus, it infects the reader in ways that I dare not calculate. The intention though, is of sincere expression.
Many times I've tried to redesign this place, but I always return to this simple form, free from system and percentage. This... is a privilege of artistic chaos. Have I seduced a sunbaked eye through cloudy subjects? Not on purpose. I suppose any type of manifestation yields secondary, tertiary effects. This... is a privilege of artistic chaos.
Curiosity has brought you here, time after time, with a different accessory around your neck. Is this a business meeting? A prescription? A shelter? A mirror? A coin? A distraction? A war? One might remind you that Everything is Temporary by taking your hand and placing it on cinders.
Are you a casualty? You are as temporary as a dream (cut in two). How many dreams can you craft in one lifetime? Who decides if your dream is valuable? Are you willing to be the best at crafting an ordinary dream? This... is a life split in obstacles. Every fragment is part of a play, in which you are given accoutrements used to constantly remind yourself that you are only, and must be, a Participant. Play along... Charlie.
There has to be some vulnerability through these obstacles, if we are to understand what we want to dream of; What is truly to be valued. To participate is to choose, to move and to react. This is... being self-taught, in a nutshell. To try without any guiding light. It seems easy enough when mistakes are made on a guitar, instead of a loved one. But a loved one will stay by your side when you fumble. These obstacles offer us the opportunity to feel the parting of transformation and the gathering of authenticity.
I don't have a process. I have a spirit.
That line could be a joke and you might like it, you might then decide that you like me and we could now be friends. But it's not a joke, it's a cautionary tale.
If all I wanted to offer was a face, this line would be a frame for one single painting. And that would be a joke.
To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause—there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
Labels: artform, confession, freeform, participation, passages, please feel secure, requests
