Creative Mess

I live with out a tv, computer, wifi, radio, iPod or iPad, car, or even a bike currently. I keep no hobbies, I play no sports, I’m terrible at cards, I don’t smoke, and my small talk skills are terrible.

All so that I can devote all my free time and dollars to the pursuit of living a creative life.

That means when I am not at home creating art I’m out enjoying it at galleries, theatres, bars, caf├ęs, in the streets and under the bridges.

The only pastimes I allow myself to escape are reading, yoga, and occasionally sex.

You think with all of that I would be more productive.

I might have to get rid of my smart phone, my one tie to the outside world.

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Morose texts from last night

Everyone dies; truth is lived in the moment.

Love is what happens while you are waiting around to die.

I want to love everyone but just for a little bit. Your five minutes are up.

Good and bad are mute points; it’s all the same shade of bleak on the greyscale.

I’ve had enough hair of the dog this week; I would be better off moving to China and eating the whole god damn thing.

Feel sorry for the children; they all grow up to be fuck ups in some bodies eyes. (Maybe yours?)

When I return I’m never going back.

Make more art. Burn the shitty stuff to stay warm. Repeat until masterpiece achieved.

Ain’t nobody got time to fix their make up for their mug shot.

Run the risk of trying too hard rather than dying bored. It’s only a failure in retrospect.

I write my memoirs starting at the end; one day I will catch up with where this story is going.

Tragedy gives weight to the most frivolous of moments. Laughter brings ease to the most dire of circumstances. Everything in excess.

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A poem called Inspiration

The wind feels like it might tear the roof off of the house,
And I would be exposed;
Ironic and unhumorus,
A present not wished for.
To love your work is to burn it;
To love your work is to tear it open;
To love your work is to sever it;
To love your work is to devote your life’s blood to it.
There is something to be said for austerity.
Humility will only get you so far as a life practice.
Sometimes you need to lie
Bear the bones of it,
Tear back the flesh
Piece by piece,
Until there is nothing left.
Then there is a feast to be had.
Under the fingernails of doubt
There is a tiny fleck of hope
That might actually be worth something
If you could only dig it out
And bury your face in it,
To hope for that day
The roof opens up above your bed,
While you lay awake,
Letting your best ideas
Escape out the feather pillow.

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