For years I've been trying to control the artistic process. Make it work for me the way I want it to, manipulating it into occurring when and how I please. But subsequently, along the way, I killed it. Luckily for me it survived: the artist. It's not completely dead, but dormant until I allow it to live the way it wants to, the way it must. I'm not a machine with switches labeled on and off, nor is that artist within me. He is a mystery and is filled with magic, which comes and goes, that flies in the face of everything traditional, that soars in the middle of the night and at inconvenient times.
I find myself repeating this again and again at different points in my life, but sure enough the conscious man of logic and time management within me tries to take a hold once more. (And often does quite firmly). And whenever he, that man of mathematical nature, is in rule, the man that is an artist resides in a ditch somewhere, in the slums, a peasant without a pen. But when that tyrant hand tiers and comes to fall from sickness and strain, that is when the ever flowing, nonsensical genius is allowed to make a speech. Yes, he may make it at midnight or in the presence of few who listen. The words my form on his tongue spontaneously and without prevail...who knows. But the point remains: if I, one man of two minds, wishes to be an artist at any given point in my life, I cannot too strain to control, pin down, or even understand how or why that artist exits. ... He just is.
I must let him be and create as he pleases.
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