Disjointed, joined thoughts:

I read Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way last year, and ever since, I’ve been chewing on the idea that all art we produce is an offering to the gods and spirits. 

Another idea that’s been rolling around in the slipstream of this grey matter is Gustav Mahler’s famous assertion that “tradition is not worshipping ashes, but tending the fire.”

In Taiwan, most of the Taoist temples have a stage attached. People gather in the courtyard to watch divine theatre, holy puppet shows. 

I’ve also deleted all my social media and have been spending a lot of time writing longhand, using a 100-year-old typewriter, and making music on a Dobro from 1972. It’s not hard for me to lean into this more analog existence; I grew up in the ‘80s and ‘90s. 

I went to a Bread and Puppet performance this past fall; it was glorious.

I grew up doing theatre. Performing poetry. Open mic nights. 

How Music Works by David Byrne made me think about the event of people, making music, in a room. It made me really consider the difference between recorded music and live music.

Perfection is flat and soulless. It’s reified. Unattainable. The art we make should be meaty. Sweaty.

It should have dirt under its nails.

Heathenry, animism, dirt-and-tree worship — this should definitely not be a reified thing. It must be meaty and sweaty and real. It must be in-person. We must join hands and pass cups.

I remember that crochet is impossible to replicate by machine, and that makes it special.

I have been sewing my clothes, making my jewelry. I look more and more like a piece of my own art.

I want to stitch all these ideas together. Some kind of coherent artist’s statement. But coherency still eludes me. 

That’s all right. I don’t have to be an essayist today. Tonight, by the new moon, maybe I can tend the flame as a poet.