friends,

in case you haven't noticed, my attempt at a more public blog has moved here:

normalstream.blogspot.com

it is in that cycle of the artist that i must now say that while i do not regret anything written on "everybody works", it would have perhaps been better for me to keep these words private. Normal stream, though still understandedly vague, is a public experiment. it contains a lot of unfinished short stories, novel ideas, and other things i feel like sharing. i have decided there are certain things of which it shall not contain, past sins, perhaps, grievances, words which have taken my own life and shamelessly blasphemed the God who continues to give me mercy in my infantile wandering. I know you may not understand the disjointed nature of the enterprise, but i encourage you to read them. I'm going to try to make them healthy. Do not hesitate to feedback (if it is really feeding that i am doing :) )

the struggle here is internal- in which i perpetually feel that inside of me there rages a monster. but this is not some satanic grotesque typically associated, but a beautiful articulate. i ask myself- "what is to be my life's work?" because i am ready to pour everything. ive narrowed it down, yes, today, but it seems as though tomorrow it will widen out again. in times when nothing is certain, i fumble over what i am supposed to be doing while the clock still ticks towards judgment day, and i am scared that i will be judged by my achievements lack thereof.

but still, i must write my manifesto. i must trudge on in the blink of nihilism, on the verge of feeling, like God, as though i am attempting to create ex nihilo. but is it to be a manifesto of nothingness? i find a cycle like the Judges- the thought occurs to me that at some point all of this struggle to create will be synthesized into some epic being that will win from me its independence. i keep feeling as though in some moment of transcendence all of my artistic efforts will magically transcribe themselves onto a permanent page and thus be entered into the great historical canon of human art. most importantly, i will reap the satisfaction of knowing that my message has been broadcast into space, and i have received an intelligent reply. it is legitimate. i feel as though ive found my calling, and i am ready to get to work.

but every time i start, i get depressed. i suddenly feel incapable of writing anything. then i criticize my own method of validation by artistic achievement, and i decide to just be. i decide to perhaps never write again. and i decide to be ok with myself if this happens. i decide to not attempt to "force" writing. so i dont write.

then i start to think- "what is to be my life's work?"