Sometimes agony and joy take the same form.
Maybe there’s a lesson in that.
I’m captivated by the show, I really am. All those lights! The wheezy caliope and the painted horses spinning around, rising and falling, their eyes flashing, their teeth bared, their thick pink tongues arched in terror.
I could just about wet my pants.
I am enthralled by death in its many forms. Monsters and evil abound and are not restricted to the darkness of night or to dank cellars and bedroom closets.
You don’t have to look outside yourself to see it.
That’s the real horror, isn’t it?
I don’t understand why I’m so anxious about things. You’d think that knowing you are doomed, not in some figurative way, but really for real doomed would free you from small-minded concerns and trivial worries. And, sure, when death is breathing in your face those concerns do diminish, but the end is coming just the same.
How retarded not to really act on that knowledge.
Imagine that freedom- especially if you could possess it before you got crippled by disease or enfeebled by old age and dementia.
ah, it’s a pipe dream, I know.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t guess I’ll ever figure it out.
That’s okay. I like being me.
I wouldn’t trade with anybody.
I love the piece I just finished.
I love doing them.
I could just look at them and look at them.
Which I do.
I am having a wonderful Saturday of long walks and good food and talking with my beautiful, intelligent, amazing wife and doing art and listening to the dog chew herself under the dining room table.
May your day be as full of blessings.
And if they drop the bomb on your ass, run outside real quick and dance for as long as you can.