Reading harold_maude's journal

This morning, the thoughts from last night are still there.
This vague sense of being like two day old coffee, or one day depending on how useless it is to the coffee addict.

I'm beginning to think that being an artist means along with all the other stuff, that there is this intense feeling of tradgedy that sits on your shoulders and pecks relentlessly at your head.

I'm beginning to think that no matter what else we are, we are prone to major bouts of depression anger, lonelyness and self abuse.
We feel so intensely the moments that are brilliant that the fall is way too high not to get smashed up from.

But looking at it. It's worth it.
I can say that because the end result is the work that gets birthed out of that place.

I think about all the geniuses of the past who created the things we look at and go wow to and want to grab hold of and keep tight to our chest, as if to find some deep loving warmth with in thoes things.

I think they felt exactly what we do and it didn't matter.
They were as driven as we are now.
And were destine to feel such intense things so that they could create thoes peices of wow that make people have mental orgasams.

I'm also of a mind to think that in this world of over priced plastic life we are more depressed and more sucidal off and on than our genius forfathers.
And we are more desperately seeking someone who can touch us and make us know that we are real.

I know this is true for myself anyway.
I would love to know that I'm real inside this skin all the time.
Instead of feeling it on rare occasions.
I love my art.
But sometimes I wish it were human and could reach out and grab me with such intense hands that all I would feel is this deep gutral primal scream of every thing well up in me and end up blasting out of every pore in my body.

I would love to have it rip me to peices and then put me back together with a smile on it's face.
I would love to feel it look at me with such intense hunger in it's eyes and wisper things that you just lay there and shake at because it's like being plugged into a transformer waiting for someone to switch on the connection so that you end up blowing up like some star going super nova.

I wish my art were human, instead of just a reflection of my soul.
Maybe then I wouldn't go through the emotional bulshit that beats me up.
And sits there reminding me of why I'm here.

It only looks that way because your standing on your head.