All Art Is a Disappearing Act
Otherwise, you may as well be selling Hitler’s piss
“All the stories I would like to write persecute me. When I am in my chamber, it seems as if they are all around me, like little devils, and while one tugs at my ear, another tweaks my nose, and each says to me, ‘Sir, write me, I am beautiful.”
― Umberto Eco, The Island of the Day Before
What are you doing here?
It’s a question we all have to ask ourselves from time to time. Not, ‘why am I here?’ That question is subtly different, and you probably won’t like the answer.
No. What are you doing here?
Looking for distraction, probably. Seeking guidance, maybe. Looking for something, a tool just the right shape to reach past the bulges in your muscular heart and touch the tiny vital spot that seems to shrink by the day. Or else you’re passing time on the toilet.
This isn’t about mystical raptures. It isn’t about 7 Lil Wayne Quotes To Supercharge Your Life, either. It’s not about the money. It’s never been about that.
It’s about art. It’s about the way the stories we tell seem to know more about us than we do. It’s about how the imagination takes on the power of prophecy, not by magic, but by us willing it into existence.
