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.
