The way she holds her head when she types can tell me, if I pay attention, that she believes art is neither a particular product nor a particular activity but a method. Anything done this way is art. Anything produced by this method is art. I've seen tears as art. I've seen art in silence, in the way one stands or walks. The difference is in the how and in the why. These shape the what. Wherever I am and whatever I do, I am only and forevermore interested in producing art. Function is peripheral and superficial where I live. From now until forever after I am only and always in my house, and this is how we do things here. All are welcome here but we do not compromise on a few things. Not here. Not in my house. Here we do art.
The Hope for the World walked in and, sighing a little, dropped with a groan into a chair. She wondered for a moment what this grit was under one fingernail, turning over and reviewing hands calloused and dry with good use. Her pants, stiff denim stained with soil, were frayed at the cuffs but sturdy and fit, except for one snag torn an inch and a half just below the knee. The cafe buzzed around her, dense with noise and life, unaware, as was she, that The Hope for the World sat tired and hungry, waiting to be served. Somewhere, in the future, we will sing songs for her, remembering her with fond tears of gratitude. Now she wishes she could have showered after work, her stomach grumbling under her sweat-stained shirt. In a cafe like this, however, people don't notice too much. Here, she thought as the waitress, napkin-wrapped flatware and menu in hand, led her to a table, you can just blend in have a bite to eat, maybe a little coffee or ice water. The Hope for the World thanked the waitress and slid into the little booth alone with a sore little sigh. Outside, in the parking lot and beyond, the world needed her unaware.
There is no practical magic. Close your eyes and run as fast as you can. Do it. Do it now. Fools make magic of us all.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
