This is what I never hear about
in Eastern philosophy: each time
I reach a state of grace, it’s
followed by a fall. Maybe that’s
why artists are never saints:
they ride that state until there’s
nothing left and then plunge into
the existential sea, melted wings
flailing. Is this just me? Am
I the only one not doing it right?
Maybe it’s the desire to create
that topples us, that one thing
we won’t let go of, that urge
deep as bone. The Goddess smiles.
Does that signal approval or
am I just one of her private jokes?
Huffstickler (at Dolce Vita)
June 13, 2000