I have been all balled up in what I had been taught to call Art.

But what is that?

I do not really know. What it means.

I want to abandon that world, vague, arbitrary, indistinct, talked to its death by fools, who are self-appointed experts and whose voices are recorded only because there is thought to be a need for somebody to tell the rest of us what to think and the fools are available with credentials. It is as if the world of art thinks seriously thinks that you and I not hammered with data shall not realize the worth of Da Vinci or Mozart nor Buddy Holly.

There is no culture at all and never has there been such a thing in reality, and friends, reality counts more than its opposite.

Upheaval!

There is going to be.

Hard rain is a name for it in real art.

Upheaval!

People who make a living in leadership positions are going to have to find another way. Leaders are liars. The word is out. We think. We think very well. We think very well without being told what.

Upheaval!

Da Vinci lives! Not in a museum but in the very souls of human beings! Trust what is. Not what was. Not what should be. Not what is hoped for. No. What is!

If the message of the Sermon on the Mount delivered tomorrow on a hilltop anywhere by a perfect stranger who is also despised by the leadership of the place is not fresh enough to carry the moment it is never going to be and if it is not it remains what it is now and that is just a faint symbol of what someone dreamed who now lives far away from us in time and space and so must be related to as a Saint Different and Unique from ourselves who will save us after we die. Funny, how He saves us from nothing but our own self doubt which seems to indicate we are already with it.