I am typing on the world’s softest keyboard. It’s like having jello fingertips.
I was reading “Skinny Legs and All” again last night. It is such a good book.
I like its definition of art as something that you can see in your head, but you know doesn’t exist in reality, so you try to make it exist.
I think this is what Robert Bateman cannot understand.
Art as imitation? That is just flattery.
Painted fangs and paper coats, a canvas of timeless snow. To make beauty and life something to look at.
I disagree with it all.
Make randomness. Find splendour in it.
Paint the pattern of your mind in the fickle sand, and know that it will blow away.
To be or not to be timeless? Infinite? Or just human?
We err, we die, we hold stiff poses against the sky – a sky that never changes. And what we make and what we shape is beautiful because it eventually ceases to obey the order we have inflicted upon it and metamorphs into something we could not ever have imagined.
And I ask myself, over and over again: where would I be if I had never met you?
A tan, bland comment from a waiter at a tea party. And I would have outlasted the winter with my ice and arctic breath.
But you and I – our pulse, our heart, together: we are not meant for trivia and sullen conversation.
The outside rules are writing themselves in rigid lines of decline, delineating the passive guests – but we, we are undressed and dressed again, an unfolding nebula of muscle, blood, and mirth, and who dares to say us wrong.
Who dares to say but sorry and thank you – these well-wishers and critics.
I see you and I’m dazed understanding. I’m iron on fire.
I’m living, I’m burning; I have stunned the artifex of my life in the shower, and these eyes – mine eyes are dancing the jive with yours.
And I’ll be here.
(kissing your eyelids shut at night).
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