I think we’ve really isolated art. All of the so called “openness” of “free spiritedness” of art is contradicted by definitions. It’s so restricted by what’s expected of it. Everyone’s always like “Yea, let’s epitomize La Boheme and while we’re dying of starvation, follow in the footsteps of VanGogh and Hemingway with creative and complete insanity.” It seems like it’s come to the point where if you’re not some mendicant artist with a severity of psychological problems or a hopeless junkie, you’re excluded from creativity. Of course, all of this is going on very indirectly, and being ostentatiously exaggerated with sarcastic intent by me . . . because I know there are artistic people feeding their creative inclinations on something other than an underworld of depression and depravity. Still the world’s perception of this concepts infers that it’s nearly impossible for Christianity and art to coexist as something that’s more like one accordant thought rather than societal polarities.

Lately, and always really, I’ve been really cognizant of life as one continual strand of progressive movements rather than an influx of dramatic emotion. I find myself so happy observing trivialities.

Example:

I was in dance class the other day sitting on the floor doing some exercizes -- watching my teacher assiduously in attempt to calibrate my body with hers into some newly discovered contortion that once again defies the restrictions of what is physically possibly. We were just stretching really, but we were spread out in the splits focusing on our feet, really becoming aware of how they arch and fall and roll through stages to unify into single movements. I can’t explain what she was doing, basically, just alternatively pointing her feet in sequences. But it somehow struck me. Just the intricate architecture of the body. Something about how even the feet progress and liquify into art. It’s so beautiful, but I doubt anyone really cares. They’re more concerned with prioritizing the next ten years of their business life. These are the things we should be focusing on: becoming cognizant of the process of simplicity. More and more I find I’m obsessed with details, enamored with the way strangers throw their heads back when they walk, how the person next to them stretches and the sillouhette of their arms frames the stop sign, and the stop sign’s glazed in rain and I keep hearing William Carlos Williams saying “so much depends on a red wheel barrow . . . .”