All births are messy. At the moment of cleaving, the instinctive desire for sterility and restraint vanishes and what’s left is raw, jagged, and as destructive as it is life-giving. We weep, scream, tear our hair, lash out. Properly tucked-in personhood gives way to elemental humanity: getitoutgetitoutgetitout. The birth of art is the same way.Continue reading “The Alchemy of Despair”
Into Idlewild 