Perhaps I am not a writer graced with skill defined by line after line of beautiful works. Perhaps I am nothing more than a clumsy claudhopper mosying and shuffling and bumbling along. But I'd like to think that at some time or another, my work is the most delicate and and fluent of expressions. I like to imagine, sometimes, that the shoddy, unnamed quotes I use, created by myself of course, are some great and wise saying from a most eloquent being, though it be far from truth. In unfortunate reality, I am taken from my high post and reduced to naught but a blundergoing fool. (What's that? It isn't a word? I'll make it one then.)
These little rectangles of letters, paragraphs and stanzas, make my thoughts known to Everyone or perhaps only to No One. What matters is that I have an audience, even if it only be the Voices in my head. (What's that you say? I'm Insane? But I am just as Amused as I am Disturbed- so be it then.)
Is there a meaning to this mindless rabbling? Perhaps some sort of hidden message warning us of danger or providing us new insight to some widely known internal truth..?
No, not at all. I just write because I can.
And I would have ended it there, just to be abrupt and keep you wondering, but then I decided to keep going.
When I am writing, I do as a please, you see.
Comma comma comma comma comma and more words no stops just keep going going going until my hands reach my mind and the dust settles and I may breathe a bit better than usual.
Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.
Today, I think it is both. Working, not working, working working working not working but still working.
One day, instead of forcing my thoughts into the compacted form of a poem or a story or an allegory
I might write them as they come to me, in small, random and disjointed bursts.
One on dogs one on cats on bats on rats on cars and mice and fingers and hammers and bones and milk and whatever else comes along.
So is it art, or arrogance, or self-importance (What, they're the same thing? I choose to use both, thank you)
or lack of sanity or silliness or something else that cannot be remembered (I have a short memory when I need a long one and a long one when I need a short one)
The style changed a bit as this wore on. It changed because I changed. Because you changed. Because the words decided that they could not sit still and simply popped out onto the page. (Unruly little things, aren't they?) So forgive me if I seem to've forgotten are (our) original topic:
Art, or not?