What painting is: managing to say one honest thing after tens of thousands of guaranteed failed attempts at profundity.
Strike that: cut the shit; sort out all that yard sale crap you're trying to sell. No one's buying because they know what you know: It's worthless trinkets. You think you know? Oh, what's that? You KNOW that you DON'T know? Well, golly. Take that to the bank. I fucking dare you.
Look, just get a start. Remember what Lysak says: "Don't not think." Maybe that's crappy.
You just go. That's it. It's a pleasant and fruitful journey. Does that smooth the bristles and brambles down for you?
The idea cannot be dumb enough. How's that grab you? It really cannot. Stop looking for clues and load the goddamn gun you've had slung over your shoulder for eons.
Jesus!!! What else do you need to hear? That's your malfunction right there, bud. You need to stop hearing. It's tricky, trying to concoct the right words to help you go deaf without rendering you into a hermetic introvert.
"I want to believe." That's as good as it gets. What a rich tragedy. The existence of unrequited desire. Is that possible? Look, there it is. Over and over. Is it a go-between? Like messages sent through the baby child between two oafish, quarreling parents? Blech.
You'll never know, but, hell, at least you'll get to saunter into eager classrooms and be treated like that child go-between, that mysterious answer-giver, that silent soothsayer. Take that as it is.
A highly disciplined moron is worth ten thousand genius layabouts. That'll make you feel better. Now, go.
