Who if I called would hear me among the angelic orders? We love Rilke we love poesy and we love the tower of infinite power that lives in our memory.
Neuropathy my special companion the fire in my hands. How do we compare pains? Your pain my pain her pain what is this feeling this unwellness?The nerves are
growing back towards each other reaching like branches towards connections. But as yet they try to connect and still in this we burn. My hands burn I've made too many
drawings too many paintings much of it now a storage problem no search engine can find rhyme or reason to explain this compulsive arting .But now after the fall the
great destructive tumble I wonder what was I thinking? A fire would burn all this in great spectacular ruinous fashion lest we are careful to prevent such calamities.
After all we do disappear we vanish and we artists leave this trace sometimes quite a tangled mess of papers and things objects artful and not a mystery boatload of
aesthetic detritus. And the after life of such material is left to our posterity our dreams of a posthumous life.Art is never enough. Maybe sometimes enough but never
the same as life itself in all it's curious splendor and tangle.The angels can't hear us the angels were swept away by our horrors our awful behaviors.Art has been our
little dream of a better world a kinder time. But the flames of envy and the terror of forgetting take away those angels and lock them in a dungeon of the worst kind a
house of the muses which looks like a death house where they keep the recently dead til spring when burial is easier as the ice gives way to the softer soil.Oh come ye
sons of art let us forget our pains and recall our spring times when the days are endless and the dreams are full of hope and pleasure. Aiee!