Help us to remember the things we loved. A note to artists.

Music can be whatever you want it to be. It takes a very long time to figure that out. If you forget it, it takes a very long time to remember. We are afraid to let our fingers play the notes our hearts hear. We’re also afraid to enjoy what everyone else is not enjoying. That you enjoy something different than what I enjoy, is what makes you worth listening to, when you tell me what I should listen to.
Some of us aren’t afraid, though we may be, somewhere inside.

It takes a very long time to remember that it’s okay to be awkward andĀ obscene; to wade in the wake of one’s own failed attempts at esotericism is hard, and important. There is always a tree looming somewhere in the backyard of your mind saying, “Look at me. I’m a tree, made out of wood. Nothing will be as strong as I am. I will be here long after you are dead – long after the people who haven’t forgotten you, have forgotten you.”

We aren’t trees and this could serve to remind us that it’s okay to continue proselytizing. Go ahead. I’d rather see your paint than not see it. I will tell you how bad or good it is to me.

When I sing, I want you to tell me how bad it is. Why you don’t enjoy it, is important.

It’s okay to love art, and hate it.

It’s okay to hate art.

Someone has to do it. We learn from it. It makes us better artists to know what we don’t like.

It’s not easy to stand in front of the square canvas and pretend as though things are as they once were. Things are not as they once were and they never will be. It is difficult to let go of the present.

We want to ask the past to return, exactly as it was. We are afraid to create garbage, as we once did when we started out. We have forgotten what it means to find our stride. Rolling over, is an accomplishment for a baby.

But that’s okay. It’s okay because if you want it (whatever you do) bad enough, you will find a new stride. Your gait will change, different people will admire your new walk, your face will gain a wrinkle in an unexpected place, the sky’s blue will again be striking.

I’m not saying I know how to get back to it, but I think this is how it might go.

I want to hold music in my arms, like a newborn. I miss the feeling that I’m transparent, that I’ve been the cosmos’ vehicle for something important.

I will write a song, record it, finish and be done with it. I won’t care. I’ll let someone else tell me what’s wrong with it.

Paint it, write it, sing it. Please.

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