Each letter and word try and try. Each sentence left not to disgrace my demeanor. Neat and tidy and learned and not tom and RISK NOTHING, not even playing music under the fallacy of Sobriety when I’m not sober and drink less when I’m with Stan, but it opens that Freedom I won’t afford myself. No more letting go and being tom, but layers and layers of crust and fabric – layers and layers to view the once fertile loam, the exquisite loss of control and weeks unsound just playing out life in the rich soil soul. But now we’re all very strict and growing heavier every day without any sense or logic behind it. Hard breath and cough. Stone and afraid to crack.

Bury it all and put another coat of glaze on the pottery. I see a crack there and we won’t let the blood and loam spill out. Watching the funny is a waste, as it’s buried so deep in the mess that who can bring it up without cracking the temple. It’s a social temple, and some day I’ll go the opposite and be insane all the time, and be tom. It’ll take lots of digging and playing to get to tom, but I pray he’s not suffocated yet. He still moves, I’m sure, because a dull blue battery light faintly glows behind my heart as a sentinel, waiting waiting for the pottery to crack and smash the the tree can begin to grow again.

I know who I am. I’m trying to last in the world another decade without revelation of the old tom that I loved, but whose insecure actions hurt those other perfect potteries, and that’s not fair since they’ve dedicated their lives to tom.

Down deep is such fertile loam, but now tainted with gas and oil, spill from the waste of conformity, patching the glaze, filling the stone cracks. Smells like gas down there, the chemicals seeped into the soil.

I can hardly breathe anymore. The glaze has sealed the fat in and now I can’t move. Mike Buck gave up on all the pottery, left wife and kids and the stone house, but he oozes tainted loam now. I won’t ever leave because she IS love to me, and rightly so, so if she needs me near I’ll stay, and I know I’ve become stone like her, but she’s also different like me, but she loves her own loam that’s sensible.

My loam is rich and deep and fertile, and from it I can grow the entire world, and from it I can make the stone world better, roughing in the spirit here and there – tree here and bush there to counter the massive obelisks. What I am is Fertile and I can plant all seeds to grow beauty that your soul will recognize, that will sound within you. It’s ART. 

Why not Stan? He’s just flowing – the pipes are all wide open and the nozzle broke off and we’ll never close it again. Not enough time for all that work. Look at me – years to shut the valve, and now it’s becoming very difficult to even get a spurt or leak out.

Don’t blame age. Stan is older than me, and I was ALWAYS right there with him in the flow. But I had to choose rightly to be good to LA, who I adopted and who I therefore had to care for.  She’s a great human and deserves anything great I can give her, even if it’s burying my greatness and being stone.

Of course I’m a stone pagoda all cracks and fervently patching. I wish I could just burst and then all life would begin to flourish as is my purpose. But I have to shoot life there and here in spurts, and it soon dies.

It’s not that I cannot crack and burst, but I will not allow it for her. She’s more to me than my Self. I cannot abandon her by being me. It sounds insane, but I would never be fully me because I love her more. She would not enjoy the full eruption and the different world it would bloom, because there would be nothing for her. She can’t enjoy the beauty, being stone, but a beautiful stone. The organized antiseptic stone of the world and Thou Shalt and Thou Shalt Not. Campbell’s Dragon.

My Loam is beyond thou shalt and not, but I live with the torturous dragon for her. Some say I’d lose all sanity if I erupted. No, just what the world considers sanity. Yes, that would be loss, but I’d sunder an artist’s sanity, an offshoot of the World that keeps it cognizant of Creativity and God when those don’t fit into a P&L or Media.

My Loam Is Rich, black, moist and very fertile. I hear voices emerge from that well and I write good stuff, insightful and fruitful. Everything I write is fruitful, as it makes you bear fruit. There IS another side to the day – rick and loamy and creative. Create into the world and it becomes part of the world. Unless you succumb to the world as is so you can keep a paycheck. I do sometimes. That’s the pottery and the glaze.

There is more to life than the stone pagodas of commerce and highways. But you can live a life on just that. Work, eat, mindless entertainment, sleep. Most of the world does tha, and are afraid of the cracks. It’s okay, but YOU WERE NOT PUT HERE TO DO THAT. YOU ARE NOT MEANT TO WASTE THE GIFT OF BEING A CREATOR ON THAT.

I’m sorry. I’m speaking as any human, not an Artist. WE ARE ALL BORN ARTISTS, and the world is our Palette (cliché?). We have the world to create our own particular art on the world, and together all the creations make a better world. WE ARE ALL ARTISTS! But we’re afraid we’ll starve so we’ve all come to agreements as to what is acceptable to own to be a proper human in society, and we strive for that rather than create? WHY? Because it takes work to create, and risk to JUST BE ME as a CREATOR, especially if you have to feed kids. 

But (especially once the kids are gone) you’re just barely surviving according to society’s strictures. Every day chalk box XYZ and 6 pellets will drop down and you’ll live another day to EAT, WORK, BE ENTERTAINED, SLEEP. That’s all and that’s it. The little Free Time to yourself you Choose not to begin to create, because bed by 10. So you watch the soul burning TV or Media. At least you’ll chuckle and not be made sad until bed.

It’s so very fucking useless, as you’ve been put here to create, to CREATE a WONDERFUL UNIQUE LIFE and Share it with the world so they can create too! A world of ART and Expression.

I quit, but I can’t quit because she needs $800k to retire. I don’t mind dying. I would hang myself TODAY except she needs me, and I need to have the chance to break my thick glazed shell and burst my hands into it, bloodied, and scrape the stone and decades of sharp shrapnel glaze aside and burrow into the dust into the slightly caked still brown terra into the moist dark topsoil into the cold then warm moving perfumed loose base where sprouts burst but have been dying, but now stretch to the light atop the hole, and I dig and bath in the loam and it dissolves my rough skin and drinks my blood and eats my bones and we sprout and I germinate and spring and bud and burgeon and burst into the sky, onto the earth above, and it grows and grows and spreads and rich colors fertile and seeding smear Your World and give you Eye-Candy and thought.