This is coming from nowhere. Really.
As i write in today, i wonder about the presumptuousness of it all. The utter arrogance in assuming that the world needs to know what you think. Or feel. On further pondering - not too much; kills brain cells- i am deeply comforted by the fact that most great art (great used in the "great haircut!" sense of the word. My cumbersome pondering might lead you to think otherwise) comes out of a confluence of constipated urges and deep enjoyment of satisfying them. I really doubt Pablo Picasso would have painted, had he known what he could end up as, in deeper shades of tan to reflect museum lights in a more muted way. Then again, he was an artist, and i, loath as i am to say it, am a hustler. What then? Do i do this to relieve my urges and enjoy the satisfaction of the ensuing relief, or do i do this for an audience?
Weighty question, that. Need another beer.
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