AMP: Artists' Meeting Place and Resource Collective

7 July 2006 - 10 am

I am here at work, at the flute company. Shooting waxes into rubber molds.
I am a God in chains. A one winged angel. An octopus with one tentacle.

I know better than all of these people - don't I?

A voice: " Oh, they're just grumpy because their lives didn't turn out the way they wanted."

Another voice : " You'll never make any money with your own two hands."

A third voice : "Kissing each other all over."

It echoes in my head.

A fourth voice, my own, echoing from the past:
" I've got to get out of here."
"It's an Elephant's graveyard."
"I've gone from thinking 'Oh how the mighty have fallen' to 'Oh how the fallen have fallen'."

"Kissing each other all over."
It echoes in my head.

I'm dying. I'm really dying. I'm not here to ask for help, I'm here to warn you - I'm telling my story to scare you from my path.

"An artist is someone who can be playful on demand. One who can play at a set time and place."
"Art is the crossing of Taboo."

Isn't taboo just the art of playing at an inappropriate time and place?

But when I get home it's gone. It's all gone.

At work, I am bombarded by many ideas, dreams, poems, plans, and desires. But I can only act on them but slightly.

I go home and I disintegrate into a sea of pornography and distractions. Everybody wants something from me. Everything wants something from me.

They pick, pick, pick at me all over, and there is nothing left. I am gone. I am all gone.

And I eat. And I sleep. And I grow back, and go to work again. To be harvested again.

OK fine. I give up. I guess I really do want to be rescued. I'm sad and scared and I can't seem to move.

I'm a deer in the headlights. A damsel in distress.

Right here I have everything I need to rescue myself, but i am paralyzed by my own fear and all I can do is scream.

A deer in the headlights. Everything is moving so slowly. Who is driving that car?

- Picking each other all over -

I can see no difference between Art and Magic. Between the Artist and the Magician. If there really is such a thing as art, if its real, then the Artist and the Magician are one and the same.

All Roads lead to Rome. All hearts lead to home.

Otherwise there's no difference between Art and everything else that people do.

"One big Dungeons and Dragons game that got out of hand."

Am I going insane? Of course I am!

If sane is a place you must either be out of sanity of in sane.

If I'm going crazy, why is it taking so long? When will I get there?

Crossing the Abyss. Leap of Faith. The Be leading edge.

A Voice: "I'll see you on the other side of the fucking bell curve, you motherfuckers."

Drown your sorrows, drown your fears, don't let your magick end in tears. You can be anything you want, but what do you want to "be"?

Cross that fucking threshold. Dare.

I've spent all this time reading up on particles and quantum physics, skepticism, psychology, evolution, genetics, , and memetics. Sociology, biology, and zoology.

I should have been looking at art. I should have been dancing in circles. I should have been studying mythology, poetry, memorizing attributions and correspondences, reading sagas, eddas, and epics.

And fucking and fighting and eating and biting.