Notebook Enry: 2007 Key West
What was jointed is disjointed. If only I could do more. If only I could do better. If only I could go further.
If the goddess can cut her throat and feed me her blood, would that help? How is it that we can be so full of desire but so slow to gather dry wood to stoke the fire. And when the fire dies we blame everyone from the shoemaker to the gatekeeper.
We are born smooth and unblemished, hydrated like a melon straining at the edges. Somehow we manage over the years to suck our own juices and, like a toilet with a leaky tank that does not refill, we slowly evaporate. All that is left is the bitter cellulose heart.
I have stoked the furnace of my heart, my spirit, my mind; yet the body splays itself like a concubine over soft pillows with a vulgar, I-want-it-now, gluttonous reign. My opponents are not others, him or you but this treacherous body. If I can split in two, it is “me” against “you” in a boxing match. Who will win?
There is nothing romantic about being an artist. I know about artists who await the “Voice of God” to transcend them into genius. Poor sods. You are a skin encasing meat that generates chemicals for emotions, hormones for behaviours, neurons for decisions. You are, first and last, the body. Better yet, you are your own illusion wrapped in epiderm.
The body is a formidable opponent.
