Apologia Sine Qua…Compos Mentis in Capitalist Perdition

There’s an app for that — it tells me I once lost a corgi and I’ve now lost a fire extinguisher. Then, there’s an app for that — which tells me to fall in love with writing. Not because of the money or headlines I’d make, or the critical acclaim, or the twittokgramface-o-sphere / housewife-o-idol-talentdancing places I’d go, but because without it— this writing benediction-affliction — I’d feel bereft, bereaved, and aggrieved. And so I do this, because a filmmaker makes films; because a painter paints; because a writer writes. Because divine discontent. Not for the cash prizes, the 30-under-30’s or 5-over-50’s, the grant, the convocation to retreat, the fellowship, or cameo on the pixilated-tripe-du-jour for a shot of heebie-skeevy rope-a-dope… but just because this is this. Feels good. Like a permeable biological membrane to a transport protein. Huh? Because art is a way of passing through life… duh!

What I’m Reading:

“Every time I open my lips
I flood the void with clouds”

— Vicente Huidobro / “Night”