How’s it hanging? Such a weird thing to say to someone. Hey, Padre, how’s it hanging? Well, what do I know? I’m old enough to be taken aback by the way “douche bag” is now common parlance. Though it’s true I’ve lived in France a few times (doing research in the archives) and there you better get used to saying douche or you’re going to turn red every time you hear a shower.
I wrote a post on Monday because I couldn’t help it, about suicide and the recent loss of an amazing poet, and it has gotten a good bit of response, here and on facebook. I’m moved by it all. On facebook, a relative of Rachel’s wrote thanking me for the piece. Guess if that made me cry. Hearing from people about it is an emotional experience, both very sad and very dear. A lot of the people who responded here are artists whose work I have admired and some who I’ve come to think of as part of this bap band of basically bipolar bards – both of which circumstances made hearing from you that much sweeter.
How can we shiny broken freaks possibly survive without each other? Impossible. We have got to cultivate faith in humanity, in art, in artists, and in the eaters of art. I have to focus on noticing how not alone I am. If we suffer together I think I can manage it. It almost sounds like fun. And it appears that we are suffering together. So okay.
ps pic is at the Jewish Center Museum, in the lobby. i'm still working the poem response to genesis art. there is an event around it on Feb 3, I'll be there to read the piece and hear other people's work. if you come too, come up and say hi.