A Starting Point Glimpse

By candlelight I sit. Operatic drama does not blast out of my Victrola. My own music does. That, or moody acoustic music made to put me in a somber mood. A state of moody decision making. Relationship woes. Song ideas. Strange anecdotes to share. Stories for the purpose of prose or songs.

The place I visit . . .

. . . a culmination of four different projects, seeming at first to have no connection, but inevitably my brain ties it all together into one vast story and world. This is not a happy place, per say. It's a responsibility. It's a nuisance. It's exciting. Pleasurable. Nauseating.

The artist's landscape is one akin to love. Love is a feeling where you want to cry but can't exactly bring tears to stream out of your eyes. My art taps into that same feeling. It's hokey to say Art is Love. It's not. Art is Shit. It means nothing to you. You don't feel my love.

You just hear me say I love you. And you make up the rest for yourself.

Fever Ray -- "If I Had a Heart"