I write in red ink these days, it spreads across the papers I collect. The words passive voice; word choice, spelling error spill out of my hand, but I never forget: a soul lives in every word written. Every word spoken.
Disfunction. Misinterpretations. Repetitions. Wacky equations. Good is always on the horizon.
Sometimes it's easier to neglect making art; to neglect visual and verbal expression; to stare off into space. Because life doesn't always reveal the importance of reflection; of replication/ interpretation. Because who can tell how big an audience, if ever an audience, what for? These words echo the reminder: the reasons to make art are just as significant as making love: for history, for the better of the body, for the better of the earth, to spread energy, the earth is incomplete and boring without it.
