Art is physical

Writing is too. If I can not put my hands on the paper or paste or paint brush or pen, then I must at least be able to feel the work’s energy coursing through me–not terribly different from blood or lymph or cerebrospinal fluid. As much as I need a clear idea in my head, I need to be able to sense it in my body, within the walls of my heart: the form, its boundaries and edges, its consistency, its speed and rhythm. If it isn’t physical, if it isn’t in me as if some entity, it never leaves me, it stays stuck, whirling within the confines of my cranium, unable to descend south into the parts of me that feel, and out my finger tips onto paper or keys. I’m remembering, lately, how to open the gates, how to unleash floods or slow trickles, how to not stay trapped in my head, out of this world, lost in my own. ❤


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