We write so that we can keep chipping away at the pathologies of the mind, to uncover and lay bare our neuroses and fears and desires.
In fact there is nothing more beautiful than our attempts to create art, to share our experiences with eachother. There is nothing more beautiful, there is nothing more human. So frail, like the wing bones of a chicken made of glass.
What becomes problematic is when we try to place monetary value on what we create. When we do so, or when we strive to do so, we immediately lessen the import of our existence — WE DO NOT EXIST AS A SPECIES TO KEEP THE ECONOMY ROLLING.
The economy is a made-up, silly little concept that now rules the planet. So obviously we need to be part of it, we need to play its games.
But to create? To connect? To love? Not for the economy, but for our hearts.
Not for the economy, but for our hearts; to decide, to conquer, to embody.
The tame world in which a dollar bill trumps the blood of a soul is mindless and cruel.
The horrid golden cages that bind us rule not only our bodies but our minds and spirits.
Set free we can only see the limitless connection of soul to soul — the spirit network that ACTUALLY creates the universe.
But wait — I am supposed to gather up these thoughts and parse them, create sentences that keep you moving along so that, in the end, you will pay me something.
What is my value?
Should we put our work behind paywalls or should we throw it out into the world — here. Here it is and now experience what I experience.
Should the writer or artist be paid to translate our souls into words or images, or should they be thrown into the gutter, penniless, landless, heartbroken, and mad?
We don’t care about much, and the lowest bidder wins — Fox News will be our narrative and Cheerios our manna.
The most important words I read yesterday from a novel written by one like I — How can we create beauty if we are surrounded by garbage?