marks mans hip

I use Art and Fear, Artist's Way, and other books, particularly Deleuze and Guatarri's AntiOedipus and Thousand Plateaus and Blanchot's Infinite Conversation as ways to keep me going. The world seems arrayed against being creative - but these blocks need not exist within us. They will always be outside, in other people and institutions - often well meaning, often under the guise of "hard truths." 

When I paint, I become in the canvas. 

The impetus of writing is more engulfing than reading. Reading I feel I'm hovering over the surface - like the spirit over tohu vobohu. It is only when I dive into the chaos, the tohu, that I make sense of - which is creativity - making sense of. In painting I make sense of space and color and line - and in writing I make sense of the Real. 

But the end product is just that - an attempt - and it's back to the void - to make sense. This is the process. The product just is, a testiment to an attempt. Products come and go. The process is what remains.