Distribution Automatique

Sunday, June 1

...The fact that long ago I split my career down the middle and became a therapist, is anathema to other writers. Susan Sontag's comment. Not just to writers but to artists. Artists prefer to involve themselves in an extremely hierarchical- though in a superficial way homogeneous subculture which tends to eat alive whatever morsal of clear-headed self-assessment that might exist inside. The work always comes first to an artist. When it is authentically responded to, nothing is sweeter. But when the production is remorseless and mechanical the creation resembles nothing more than a clean xerox machine, automatically addressing all the copies to just the right people It's nice, but it's not the only thing.

What else? What else is the desire to create that wants nothing more than to burn steady and brightly, not under fluourescent shadows, but in a conflagration which, in a single, shining second, completely transforms the "material" into ascending waves of pure energy.

The hardest thing about being a modern artist is all the waiting. I have waited 20 years for a moment like I had at Charles' house last weekend. Even so, it was not about my poetry- yet this means even more to me somehow. This is becuse I know that what is lacking in the intellectual climate of today is common wavelengths, let alone common ideals. This may be because of the complete success of behemianism in the most sophisticated circles- which means mainly a general fantasy in an artistic subculture that original ideas and authentic creations are more interesting and valuable than the pap that is generated by the entertainment industry.