I know my "notes" are not exemplary behaviour of any kind. I say they are "quick" and they turn out be nothing like that. Coming from me, that is a good sign. I do not do things half ass. Now, why do I equate substance with length? Something to think about? Anyhow, when my notes become dully short, worry about me. I pour myself. I try to deliver content. To my max abilities, even if it is mediocre, or superficial, these notes are: attempted at, directed at, thought about, and then submitted for your consideration, nation.
Only when I lived in England and in San Francisco did I experience sky stransitions. I have been in other places and see similar versions. Still, only those places where truly memorable for their skies. "Milagros" is what I like to call them: glimpses of light, of evaporating water, that mixes with rays of sun delivering nonsense and uncertainty regarding the possiblity of weather phenomena that are not predictable. I miss milagros. Enjoyed them. I know they lead to nostalgia way too easily. And that sometimes witnessing skies like that every day, again and again, can be rough. Still, open our eyes. Let them fill you. And, when the humidity breaks your bones, leave. Your eyes, by then, will stop seeing the skies. Your body will be too shaken. The images will be tampered with. Leave. The climate will not change. It will be waiting for you for another season in your life when humidity leaves and the sky will be again misterious, exciting, yet not threatening.
I know you are seeking Bjork. You are rare in that. I wish she was playing live. That is all you need to enter to tribe. To see her live. In action. To let the audience reach the moment of silence when she sings (that is a natural phenomenon itself, nothing I have seen before) penetrate you. Only then will it become a blind need. You will listen. You will adore it. I cannot wait to hear it full strength while I paint. I think it is time. To attempt to see myself. To discover myself in my trace. To plug myself. It is large scale, really large. So the music as seen and heard by Bjork will be great company. It will be as though you were around, encouraging my creative nonsense, my striving, my lack of pure talent or mastery of tecnique making its way through a canvas. I still love it that way. I am, Imperfect.
I really like the idea of moving to the desert.
I am trying you to get to realize genius (of the mind, of the heart, of the creative spirits) lives with a will of its own. It is destructive. It is constructive. It can be confused. Now more than ever, for us more than anyone (because we are privileged beings who have received an education, both academic and emotional) truly care responsibilities with choices of location. I am glad your decision was made that way. It sounds inspiring not only seductive, which I find to be. It sounds directed and challenging, which makes me lust for more. I am glad. Deserts carry special winds. I can only imagine what you will find there.
Be scared. Be lonely. I am glad to know you know where you are headed. That is, above all, the best, not for the planning, but rather, because you are truly open to let the sand into you. To do whatever it can. And should it harm, the place sounds idilic to be escaped from.
Sorry to intrude, if I did, but I need to contribute. Prove you. Help you test your ideas. Let there be reasoning behind it. And if there is any, then conviction should suffice. Either reason or pure heart work for me. They all exceed any ridiculous sense of mediocre flow without conviction in life. Expericening both of all worlds sounds perfect.
Stop talking about the beautiful people as other than you... or you, just watching them away from you... I think, in the usual definition, you fit the bill of what you seem to think they are... in my definition of beautiful things, you crash them.
Anyhow. Feel free to see what you want to see. You know me. I know what I am made off. And what I want. I will approach the bench, your honor, if need be. Anyhow, enough from my nonsense. Yet again, another "quick note". I shall stop.
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