it's night, and my thoughts are a-shambles. Read a couple of essays of Emerson's on Printing, and his taste (or insistence) on perfection came round. Set me spinning. I've got some real issues there, man.
Failure, and lack of umph is the ticket here. We're always told this isn't a perfect world but I've seen perfection in art. It's not rigid, and this worlds "imperfectness" surrounds it, frames it.
The pieces had a seamlessness about them. Andrew Wyeth's Helga Series -- in person. There were some pieces in there that were seamless.
There was a dance performance. I, embarrassingly enough, can't remember the name. Judy Brown, maybe. There was a relatively simple piece in her show that was seamless.
Exposure to work of that magnitude stirs hurricane winds in me.
My life, ultimately, is my art piece. This is where some of my fear of failure lies. I am not "a writer." I am B.P.L. That actualization is my art, and nothing usurps that, that is my call. A channel/hollow bone, for the Divine. Beauty, raging and terrible if need be, but beauty manifest. My whole life.
I'm going to write Koenigshauffer.
[John Koenigshauffer is a poet and philanderer I met in Berkeley who is a phenominal writer, and hopefully has sold some screenplays by now so he doesn't have to work in construction anymore. I'm serious, this guy was hot shit as a poet.]
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