3/10  thinking I’m caught up in the notion of higher art, things that last longer than my body will. yeah it’s kind of a crap shoot of who gets remembered and who doesn’t. How easily would it have been for a woman living in solitude over 200 years ago, writing oddly compressed, short, often not rhyming poems to never have a reader outside of a couple friends. I’ve thought that who the “great” artists are is another indicator of  which dimension we’re in—there is another world almost exactly like outs except no one ever heard of Emily Dickinson and Nathaniel Hawthorne is only known as the husband of the greatest novelist of that time.

all arts are practiced with a wide degree of skill and creative, take guitar playing for example, the poetic range from hallmark to Whitman, doodles in the margins to van gogh.

so write it, please myself with what’s there, and have no further expectations.

but I keep doing it of habit, of pain, commitment. and days like last sunday when I read at powell’s on hawthorne. first beautiful weekend of the year but still had  fine crowd. jim grabill read first and enthralled the folks. my energy was high, I had real sharp consciousness of what I was doing, as if saying these words the first time. got a lot of good feedback, stimulating peoples brains, language centers, the parts that keep the beat.

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