I’m fine and making deeply again.
So much muchness is on the way.
The hell with not being real. Art has this heart to it and if you can’t hear the heartbeat then I will see you on the other side. Paint requires me and inks but not those who can’t feel the strokes. Too long ago I stopped hearing the sound. I was deaf to my hands and canvas. It calls for all these colors and forms and now I hear the ringing and I’m going into the studio to bathe in it. Freedom is blinding and scary but if the shark gets me then I died doing what I love. To the anger … I can swim forever, can you?
