Art making must reach back to creation time.
Out of the mind come beings, colors, marks, gender.
Passion allows procreation, increase, life sustained.
Owning one’s art means sacrifice.
Feeling the flesh cut, feeling the heart beat and
some sort of charge: like a hum, like a prayer, like a deep exhale.
When this happens, what is made
has a raw truth, a deeper connection to what
has always been.
Teachers become ghosts, sweet memories.
Friends become little strings that lightly hold the soul;
gentle tethers that keep one just grounded.
