Art Cries

(NOTE: This is a raw journal entry.  Some stones are unpolished.)

I brought chard to The Growing Experience (my CSA) and met J-Dream-Worker who says he will read my blog.  His schooling was in theater, and he’s starting to return toward his artistic self.  So, he’s hungry for all kinds of input.

I’ve started owning my thinking and my writing as my art, and I’m starting to own myself as an artist.  When you’re an artist you create because you have to.  There’s not much choice involved.  The pressure builds and stuff pours out.

Bangkok-Girl said something about my being an outside artist, kind of like the guy who built Watts Towers.  He worked in isolation and didn’t have the reward of public acclaim while he did his work.  She said this in response to my complaint that I’m getting tired of being insane: the feeling that I’m the only one who understands or cares about what I create.

I’ve been feeling very disconsolate lately.  Like, why bother?  I mean, I even asked her if she read myDawkins vs. Collins essay, and she admitted she read only a third of it, and then it seemed like a bunch of Matrix talk, so she skipped to the end.

Fuck it. I’m surrounded by idiots.  And they’re all so busy embracing the technology that is dumbing them down.  Assholes.

All this Facebook dreck where people post a picture and think they’ve made a meaningful statement.  They don’t know what it means to craft a personal thought.

A picture is not worth a thousand words.  A picture is the loss of a thousand words because someone plucked it off the shelf instead of growing it in the soil of her/his mind.  Where’s the effort?  The creativity?  The risk?  And, social networking tools perpetuate all this bullshit—pouring somebody else’s work into your info-stream.

So, I’m a lonely outside artist.  I guess I still have a responsibility to bring my art to the world.  That’s what it means to be in the world and do your work.  Once you come to know and accept your responsibility, then you’ve passed the point of no return.  There is no choice any more, no opportunity to agonize over should I or shouldn’t I.

You just know your work and do it.  Damn it.  God, are you laughing again?  I thought so.

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I had a thought a couple of days ago.  It’s a little hard to recapture.  “You don’t yet know who you are.”  As if to say that I am tip-toeing around my purpose and my power and my use and my instrumentality.

And it makes me sad.  I feel so far away from the home I knew and the home I’m to make for myself.  Sad about all this work on my path, and seeing that I’ve barely begun.  I ask you, God, how many times must I walk this way before I get it right?  How many times must I live this life before I understand?  How many times around the track for my pitiful self to run into the conscious awareness of what I’m actually doing here?

These are the questions every grain of sand asks.