it's funny. All of his books that I've read mention the problem of the writer... that the writer can not transfer what is in his head through words into another persons head. That words are inadequate that nothing is adequate. Interesting topic for a writer. He aknowledges the problem, but gives it his best shot while accepting defeat before he starts.

I like H.H.

Me, I have nothing to say. Just yelling into the dark to prove I exist.

To the world that is keeping me afloat,

I am grateful: I have been given a place to paint, a place to stay, a place to sell my work, a place to make prints, a place in the world... it is a good place.

(thank you)

I guess this place is a journal to myself or the world. Or both...

Why do I write here? I had people around me in New Orleans. If I had a thought I hollered over the wall and we exchanged ideas. Now the community that once was is scattered. I have thoughts. I holler into the cyber-dark. Maybe someone hears.

Everything can be taken away with the blink of an eye, but before you take the next breath it is all given back. Just the universe telling you who's in charge. This crushes the individaul and installs faith. Shows you how weak you are while simultaneously making you stronger than ever. When I say faith I don't personally mean the Christian kind. I just rather mean another kind. The faith in an all-encompassing power that flows and guides life.

If I give into the flow life will be as it should. If I fight it I just get the same result while exhausting myself. It sounds Eastern but I don't know enough about any religions or philosophies to claim them or accept them or give credit to them... or reject them.

I know my experience of my experience... that is all.