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Got a good report today from my doctor. At 53, I know there are many negative symptoms the doctor looks for, and if they're absent the feeling is "thumbs up," "you're pulling a A," and so on. But, though I've sometimes idolized them, doctors are not gods. So I will be grateful for their bloodwork and exams, while happily recognizing (as often as possible) my days are numbered. My life isn't my own; it's an amazing process within the organism of reality, the push-pull of truth and error, involving turns toward insensible corruption along with revolutions back into warm rays of ultimate goodness.



Recently I jotted down, "Reality is not a performance. It is an interaction."

This, if true, is all kinds of yes in my book. It makes art better than I ever imagined, because now all art is about Something. Pointing and beckoning to Something I have always known had to exist.





I just knew art couldn't save me. Oh, I tried to make believe it could. I tremendously pushed for it being a thing I could build and make happen. Art on a platform bearing an image of, well, me. Sure, I was convinced art was the expression of my future reality, not the savior itself. But I needed to establish art, make it real, even though I hadn't gone to the future to see it yet. Much mental energy was spent, long days of imagining, choosing, structuring, in light of trying to make this establishment.

If art exists already, however, lighting the way to Something, then I am immersed in noticing art. I am on a journey to engage with art. With, for instance, a tree.









A tree does not save me. But its leaves and branches and girth and location and the birds alighting in its branches and the sunset behind it -- all these aspects of a tree, which is of the highest forms of art, invite me Somewhere, toward Something.



So does a Van Gogh. So does The Lord of the Rings. So does the Old Testament.

Don't forget flowers.









All kinds of yes.