What You Need to Know about Being an Artist

There’s the glacial fields, for starters, cracking up into thousands of sad little islands, all horribly haunted. I see literally nothing rough about a clean-shaven face, especially if it smiles smugly and rocks may be thrown at it. It shatters, an illusion. Society lives in a big house, and I’m either the crazy lady making really fucked-up YouTube videos in the attic, or not. The anxiety of a mother feathers its nest in my head, who am I? Through the smug but broken window pane buckets of light pour through. It must be 3:00 pm EST. It must be summer, mid-July, because dauntless sparrows tease hayseeds from the golden horse manure. Copenhagen, when will my bones melt into baby fat, and my codpiece swell with merchant jewels? No answer forthcomes, let me peel away the codpiece of sleeping Zeus, all thunder and mascara. Take me out of myself, St. Augustine, O Lord God, yea, behold patiently as Thou art wont how carefully the sons how carefully how carefully the sons of men observe the convenanted rules of letters and syllables. The artist, eating a handful of tortilla chips, watches such forms of shadow and smoke as her breath and or breasts hath endowed with perfect life and freedom go gallumphing, shit-kicking, pearl-smuggling and herb-harvesting upon the airs of phantasy. “The creative life” actually involves tons of data mining and measurements of shame. What wingspan shames, for example. Besides always looking yourself in the eye in the mirror, you must be aware of the flies jostling just off frame. The artist draws more attention to herself than the flies. My love, like music, has its dramatic pauses and sublime powers. After the cherry blossoms, after our sweet and gentle oaths by the drinking fountain, when we sat glazed and dull as coconut donuts, exhausted, re-shackled by the locomotive spirit of temporality, the epiphany conked us on the head like a thrown apple core. Let us love that which we hope to because. What else? Abandon memory, if you haven’t already, dare not to trap thyself within its haunted ruins, your childhood. On your sense rely not, says Master Yoda, says the Big Budda, says the Devil Wears Prada. Within the walls of the house are circuits and tubes channeling enormous force. Arteries dance beneath our lamb skin skin, and the human heart can generate enough pressure to squirt blood 3 stories high. That’s one impressive action for pump. There’s too much cream in my tea, too many trees in my dreams. When the world ends, it will not be because you died. And you must always be on time.


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