Artists don't follow rules. They don't know how. In lieu of this shortcoming, they create - profusely. Artists are gods, as are authors, musicians, and plumbers - the most sacred highest vibrating beings walking among us. The only authentic source of spirituality, artists open the portal to connection - converting the mind to "everything is possible."
Through the dregs of the psyche, constantly mining the soul to reap the gold within - an artist's daily grind. A day's haul may produce mounds of unidentifiables: several offensive comments, piles of burnt toast, and one good deed. Who said no day was worth living? Probably an artist.
Artists do the dishes, complete oil changes, and wire electrical panels; plumb doors, prune trees, and make lasagna; build houses, go days without showering, and swear. Artists know spirtiuality is imagination. Hence their lone wolf spirit, their church of the running wild, their dogma of adaptability. If you want to understand god, ask an artist.
Sitting on my gorgeously unfinished couch in my warm and inviting unfinished house looking out into the infinite possibilities landscape, I wonder if any task is ever fully finished. I should ask an artist. But I already know...finished simply masks the heavily marketed but never achievable "Perfection!" The nauseating, degrading, toxic, ideal mindset. Perfection steals, kills, and covets - all by doing nothing. Everyday artist do something wrong - many things really. Something right always comes of it. An artist motto: Do.
Today, this "I" do. Yes, do. Create, accomplish, execute, undertake, produce, work, give, take...all in the name of art. What will come of my efforts? Who cares? Not me. Purpose is its own responsibility. I leave that to the artists - the gods of creation. So, off I go to worship, to run wild with the idea gods, and embrace mutability. Gather all the discards and repurpose the spiritual scrap, swim in the devil's ruins and ascend covered in mud. The filth of a life well lived. The life of an artist.
