Text from two Facebook posts this date - years apart

where would I be without art? If various relatives and teachers had won the battle - as it were, to make me pliable and conforming. Channeled my mind into the manageable stream bed of their expectations. Doused my imagination into the dim equivalent of theirs. Would they have liked me? Would we have sprung up a relationship of depth and trust? Shared some intimacy of the spirit that would have sustained us all?
In my heart I knew such outcomes were unlikely. There was no message but practicality (as they understood it); no goal but to silence otherness - so what - that they could maintain an horizon flat and predictable. Their job, I suppose, as they saw it.


life is fascinating: sometimes I find myself riffing without thinking about it, or desiring it - and then I back off - I should save this for therapy; I'm off on my own, trying some innate Tao kind of thing, of doing without doing - which seems the only way I get things done - my doing by doing eventuating in madcap adventures and narrow escapes - sometimes I discover that I've been able to go home all along - which makes me drink too much