blibbiddy

what;s the point to unread art?

unseen art?

what's the point in answering a muse that only taps on your shoulder? my shoulder, that is. where is the audience?
where is the re-action?

the result?

a play with no audience. an author staring at his words. his world.

a painting with only the artist to view it.

i feel irrelevant. maybe that is my own particular freedom. irrelevancy.

hmmmm.

interesting. there is a freedom in being completely unknown. a hobbyist. a squiggler. a sideliner. a wannabe, never-was.

no doubt this blogging for the wind is fun.

there is the tinkling feeling that a straggler could be waylaid on this site.

nabbed.


anyway,

when you can't get a lover to hold? forget being an ascetic. in lieu of material success i would settle for personal success. intimacy....

what's the point to all these friggin self-help books? spiritual books?

when you can't find the audience?

the other...the babe of your dreams?

in the art / show business, the artist can only be accepted , to a degree, by the collective.

the A type member of the fold declares, "hey, this is the guy."

or not.

maybe it's a group agreement that this irrelevant artist, is relevant.

we agree to let the outsider artist be an insider artist.

weird.

and all the time, i think about the audience. and, my art does have a tinkling of an audience.

FRIENDS.

and that IS relevant, right?

blibbidy...

up at 458am..

okay, yous guys,

here is a dreams sequins. sequence. see quince.

i am writing at an ungodly hour because i am driven by Jungian guilt.

Has to be. right?

this is what happens when you tell a neighbor, the next DOOR neighbor, in your building that you inadvertently left some coffee boiling on the stove when you left the apartment that morning. she was alarmed. rightly so...

an open flame, melting my pot lid for several hours. why do i feel the need to put this on the internet? to be used against me at a future date when i am hauled in by the two policemen mentioned below?

i kid-you-not, was being breathelyzed by two policemen, one with a flashlight in my face, and the other with a revolver. in my face. the more he asks me questions , the more guilty i feel and the more slurred my words become, and the more fearful i become...

i cut , with an exacto, this crystalline skylight. i am catering a party and the client wants this heavy, ornate glass canopy to fit over the tables in his outdoor patio. very chi-chi, the whoole set up. well, i customize this thing. the wrong way. oh boy,...anxiety over having done it. cover-up? or, own-up. but then one of these guests starts to get into the act and messes with it. get me out of this! no lights now. the place where the party is is closing. my sis and bro-in-law are there. don't lock us in!

a friend of mine is running down the highway. we are all running down some canyon highway. some with no shoes..no cars on this road. just all of us.. running real fast... zoom!

me amigo reaches for his left side. his arm.. oh.c hrist. ow..! oh man, he says.. obvious he is having a heart attack. let's stop running and pull over and go to this hospital.. there! no. no. no. he says. that isnt my hospital, it doesnt take my insurance. forget it. you are going in here, i say. they pounce on him. wow, prompt service. then they leave. leave us in the waiting room. get on the list.. the heart attack waiting list, i guess. and this hospital keeps the lights off, to save on electrical bills. no question, my friend was not-a happy with my samaritan intercession.

is this is the mark, or markings , of a feeble , neurotic brain?

of the makings of an erotic flame? i get it. a flame name game...