Philosophy, Emotion, and Just Damn Good Art

I've been devoting a lot of time to Art and films these days. I've accepted the fact this is all I really care about most of the time, being a single man of thirty-six, and searching for beauty in both light and dark places. I feel lucky in that I've gone through some interesting things in my life, to say the least, and can express these things through writing, knowing it not only helps, but works on a therapeutic level. It doesn't matter if anyone ever sees it. I do it because I love it. I feel a lot, too, which (I don't often know if I'm lucky or unlucky because of it) means I can express a lot. I heard the other day in the bookstore, someone mention, "Every writer is a philosopher these days," and I'm afraid I'm part of the same ilk, for better or worse. Tales of exposition, inner detail, and turmoil, with some sort of resolution (In my case, usually sad. Sue me, I love a good tragedy.) It's just me. I like books that are the same, and I like writing the same sort of fiction. Tales with meat and potatoes, as I call them. These days, my focus has remained in the dark, the creepier side of humanity, the fragility of the human mind, people who are generally good, but battle inner demons who won't go away: alcoholism, child abuse, obsession, or madness. These demons usually manifest themselves in some form or another, take shape, and eventually destroy. Though, I don't mind a happy ending, as long as it's believable, I'm not sure its always for me--at least all the time. Silly Girl has a happy ending, despite the horror I put Amanda Dear through. Realism through the pain of characters and the interminable suffering. Kind of like, "Why not take that suffering and manipulate it, make it grow, then add a bleak winter setting on top of all that, just for effect." The catharsis through writing, the therapy of taking your own inner demons and exaggerating the hell out of them. From the dark core of the soul, comes truth, and from truth comes great art.

But there I go again. I'm not trying to say anything you haven't already heard before. It's one of the first lessons we learn, but I still believe there's some truth in that. Hemingway said experience makes the writer, and I have to agree. I don't think philosophy in art or writing is so bad, at least not the way the customer said it at the bookstore. John D. MacDonald did it beautifully with his Travis McGee series. Usually, when I face a hardship through life, I ask myself, "What would Travis do?" And I haven't been disappointed with the results. Of course, I will never be Travis, because he's the size of a linebacker, spends all his time on his Florida houseboat, wooing the ladies with his charm, sense of humor, and respect. Philosophy never bothered me in writing, because I always felt you were getting something extra besides a story. If a story can teach and edify along the way, then it's done a bit more than entertain. I call that a successful, memorable, even immortal story.

Along the way, I've run into some good stories and movies. I have some catching up to do, so with Netflix, I feel I can delve in beautifully and experience some things I never had before. Let The Right One In, for example, by John Ajvide Lindqvist. I'm reading the book right now and the love story is amazing. I got it because I saw the movie about a week ago, and I fell in love with that, too. I just needed more of it. I've read some of the mixed reviews, but I ignore the negative ones. From what I can say about the film--not enough good things. Stylish, artsy, beautiful, dark, and smartly done. A true original. Rent it or read the book. I don't think you'd be disappointed. With all the vampire craziness these days, I try to steer from vampire tales, but this is the exception to the rule. I think I must be a getting a little opinionated the older I get. Hollywood films seem the same old thing, a formula we know too well. Granted there are exceptions, The Dark Knight, Iron Man, things that are truly entertaining. Don't get me wrong. I think it's fabulous these kinds of movies are coming out. I saw Quarantine as well, finally, and absolutely loved it. Traditional horror, like Cloverfield, original, even simple, but packing a wallop. The truly good films have soul, a personality of their own, whereas some of the major blockbusters or films coming out of Hollywood seem rushed. It's as though you can feel the rush. Popular book! Quick! Let's make a popular movie out of it!--the hurried script, the quick casting, the sense or lack of dimension, the lack of soul from the book. Hollywood has been pumping out movies at an un-recordable rate for years. For, of course, money. Well, that makes sense. I wouldn't turn down a quick 10 mil, either. But through it all, I find it insanely disappointing. Characters are being butchered, story lines as well. Francis Ford Coppola's Dracula, for example, not Bram Stoker's. (I know, years ago, but honestly.) If it had really been Bram Stoker's Dracula, Dracula and Mina would've had separate agendas. One movie I thought Anthony Hopkins shouldn't have been cast in, because the comic relief, was, well...not Dracula. Donald Pleasance was a much better Van Helsing. And Keanu Reeves as Jonathan Harker? Surely, you jest! Winona Ryder as Mina? Still shaking my head? On top of that, a stellar performance by Gary Oldman, which virtually clashed with Keanu and Winona. Gary Oldman, was, however, one of the better Dracula's to come along in years, I thought. And for those who haven't read the book, let me remind you, Dracula was never in love with Mina, let alone was there an immortal love story between the two. Not a single Dracula creation, it seems, is technically accurate to the book as far as the love story goes, because the only love story was between Mina and Jonathan, and of course, Lucy and her suitors. Dracula was simply a creature of the night who wanted to take over the world, not reunite with a lost love. A disappointing remake, to say the least, which for me, has grown staler over time. The Silver Surfer deserved better in the second installment of The Fantastic Four as well. Talk about your tragic stories! His was at the top of my list growing up, thanks to my older brother, who introduced me to Surfer as a kid. But hey, this is just one man's opinion. Dracula and the Surfer are opposite ends of the spectrum, but the same rules apply.

I'm relieved there are people out there proving the immortal band on film and literature. There are still directors who care, who want to share vision instead of making a quick buck, writers who believe in the power of language, in real storytelling instead of the current, hottest seller, actors who sacrifice their souls for their performance and put everything they have into it. Let The Right One In made me realize this. So did Magic. Yes, I know, the one starring Anthony Hopkins, Anne Margaret, and Burgess Merideth, 1978. I saw bits and pieces of the movie as a kid, but never knew exactly what it was about, let alone had I seen it all the way through. Finally twenty-some odd years later, I sat and watched it, blown away by Hopkins' performance, especially when he's arguing with Fatz, and Burgess Merideth is standing in the doorway without him knowing. I haven't been able to say this is in a long time, probably since Cronenberg's The Dead Zone, based on the King novel, but these two films (Let The Right One In, and Magic) might be at the top of my favorite movies list. If you want films with beautiful pace, with lives of their own, with personality, these are great examples. Of course, I'm no pundit on movies, whatsoever. I go by how they make me feel, what it did to me on the inside, and if this were a review, I'd probably be castrated. I'm just saying, I'm passionate about what I expose myself to, and I loved to be emotionally moved, mentally stimulated for both light and dark reasons. Don't you?

Better Late Than Never

Hello, Friends. Sorry, it's been so long since my last post. Since the year has begun, things have been a little crazy, to say the least: appointments, legal matters, doctors, lawyers, and many other household extravagances to make you realize life is here to stay, whether you want it to or not. That can be good or bad, I guess, depending on your frame of mind. Me, being the splendidly morbid character I am, find myself saying, "Hmmmm."

No biggy, really. I've jumped through most of the hoops, and thinks are back on track. I feel like one of those injured players on the bench, watching life go by, or the team playing without you.

I hope everyone is well, and I want to take the time to thank everybody who has posted, commented, and read my blog with the nice things you've said. It warms the heart, my friends, and I thank you.

I've recently found myself on Netflix. Long time coming, maybe, but what a discovery! Does anybody remember the movie Alice, Sweet Alice? What a creep fest! Get it, turn out all the lights, and watch it. I saw this movie at the drive-in when it came out. I was five years old, and all I remember is everybody in the car being "creeped out," as well. (Yes, growing up, the parents loved horror, so I was exposed to some very creepy movies at a very young age. It explains a lot.) It still gave me a good chill just the other night. I've been into the Omen Trilogy, too. I can't believe how good this stuff is and how long it's been since I've seen it. My new addiction is trying to build the ultimate "Horror Movie Collection," and I'm proud of the titles I've accrued along the way.

I'm happy to be back in "Horror Mode," as well. That old familiar love. Darkness and madness with a little dab of blood really makes me happy. Ahhh. I took time reading the classics for quite a few months and not writing a word. I think I needed the break, and I was glad I took the hiatus. The words that come now feel crisp and brand new. Suddenly, it just hit me: "I need darkness and madness. I need...creepy." I think creepy is among the better categories. If anything, I look for creepy wherever I go. Plus, it helps with my funky frame of mind lately, which has been tried.

Things have been weighing heavily on me. Is it okay to get that personal? Years ago, I might have lost myself in booze to forget it. These days, I pop of bowl of popcorn, put in a good scary movie, then make a milkshake. I might have an apple or orange afterwards, just to balance out all the salt and butter. Still, I must be the moodiest sonofabitch in the world, the reason I see the doctor and live as quietly and uncomplicated as necessary. Sometimes, I think I want to be this eccentric hermit who buries himself in the dark and words, writing about loneliness, isolation, about the sadness of broken dreams, the paradise we all want for ourselves, and how it often comes back to haunt us whether we obtain it or not. Writing and art, like in its mirrored reflection called, Life. It takes a long time to see through the years, to come out of the broken paradise, and accept the fact you're no more special than any one else. We only deserve what we create for ourselves. Sometimes, some of us have a little more luck than others, if you believe in that sort of thing.

I've enjoyed writing about the seedier side of life lately as well, the repellent, the horrible, the destitute, the soulless, and the lifeless. I like the realness. Broken, lost, and disheartened love. I've been working on a story I really enjoy, which is about that very thing. (115 pages. I'm doing a lot of novellas lately.) The dementia that lives in obsessive love, the distortion many of us have on how we perceive life, the world, and ourselves.

Lately, too, I've been thinking a lot about commercial fiction. Some of it just doesn't do it for me these days. Maybe I'm just being an ass. So much of it seems one-dimensional, that is a lack of character and substance, fiction for entertainment's sake, instead of emotional satisfaction. Though, I understand this is where the money lies, I can't bring myself to conform, not that I'd find a big fat contract even if I did. I guess it depends on what kind of reader you are. I know what kind of reader I am, and I know I'm not the only one. Tradition with language and the people who built that for us. Some of today's fiction seems like a cardboard cutout. Whatever happened to that blocky, beautiful prose of years gone by: Nabokov, Hawthorne, James, Hemingway? Feeling, emotion, description? Not all of today's fiction is that way, of course. I don't mean to sound like a literary pundit, let alone an asshole. The History of Love was a best seller, and that was nothing but layered emotion upon emotion, and beautifully written description. I work at Barnes and Noble, and have it on my staff recs. I hope Nicole Krauss appreciates how many copies I've sold for her, at least two a week. I'm not looking for anything in return, you understand. I just like sharing a beautiful story. And that was one among the many. Thank you, Nicole, for that. If you have some suggestions for me, I'd love to know. Make a list of some of your favorite literary works.

How this all relates to anything I've been talking about? Who the hell knows? I guess this is kind of erratic post. I'll clean it up later, maybe. I guess it goes back to the same thing:

I find life most enjoyable through art and experience, which are a perfect fit, like what many of my posts are about. Experience through shame and turmoil; through darkness, comes beauty. Through experience, comes knowledge. I know enough to know what makes me happy. Reading beautiful stories, no matter how dark or light, and writing from the raw core of my being. If I don't feel it, why create at all? Writing, what I hope, are beautiful stories, filled with language and heart. I've noticed lately that when I write, I don't feel so much like a writer as an artist. This is one the most beautiful feelings I've discovered lately.

And, of course, hearing the responses, and thanking you, in return. So, what if it took me thirty-odd years to understand it. Better late than never, right?

And a great hockey game, but that's no surprise...Maybe it's time to go skating...

See you soon, light and dark dwellers.
Brandon

Tradition, Change, and Holidays

There is something good about all seasons, and this, of course, is the beauty of fall, the pumpkins burning, the decorations, and the coming of good food, family, cheerful holidays, and the snow, which transfixes, hypnotizes, and sends me into a trance. Sometimes, I think something very bizarre and magical happened to me as a kid in the snow, and now, though I can't quite remember it, has left some long-lasting, subconscious effect. I simply love it. There is magic in all that white powder.

Aside from all that, though, I've been in a bizarre mood lately. Mom gave me word today that there is no longer a trace of cancer remaining in her system. Everyone has kept their fingers crossed, worn their pink ribbons, their pink bracelets, and prayed. Though, she still needs to be monitored, there is music in her voice. She is laughing like a loon. This has nothing to do with my own mood, though, I'm extremely happy for her.

It has been an interesting, odd year. How many of you can feel the changes as life moves by, the shifts in the air? It seems, for me, there is always some new perspective, some new thought to grasp, a new understanding about life, the universe, people, and all its little mysteries, nuances, and understandings. Sometimes the past can be a treacherous place, a reflection where very little shines, and it's not difficult to remain wedged there, stuck like some helpless child. Some of us need a little push in the right direction, and I am no exception.

I'm always on the lookout. That is, it seems hard to go through life without comparing yourself to others, resenting the past, or wondering why God put you here in these shoes instead of some one else's, things that could easily drive you mad if you aren't careful. It's hard to be grateful the things you have, no matter how little or how great. I guess a lot of that has to do with simplification, and understanding yourself and your life as much as you can. Accepting yourself, your position in society, and being okay with it. Everybody always wants more than what they have.

In writing, like in life, we express how we feel, and I have a tendency to get philosophical in my own pompous, pontifical sort of way. Maybe its the religion from years ago (which I fell away from), but still has a tendency to linger. Maybe it's the battles with personal demons, and the hope that I've conquered them to live a better life. What a better way to express the darkness of the past than through a dark tale? What I do know is that what works for me doesn't work for everybody else. You go through life by trial and error, and learn enough about yourself to understand what works for you, and what doesn't. Whatever it is, doesn't matter.

Lately, a new focus has taken shape, one I hope has a little more clarity than others before. Things don't seem as problematic, let alone, as dramatic as they used to, perhaps because other peoples problems, or the problems of the world seem vastly more important than mine. It's a good life here in the institution. I use that line comically, because I used it in one of my tales. But it is no longer, nor has it ever really seemed an institution now that I think about it. The prison I lived in, like for everybody, was of my own making.

I haven't been as disciplined sending out submissions. I sit here and think about all the novels I have behind me that have never seen the light of day, the short stories, the genres, the cross genres, the fantasy, the horror, even some coming of age, idyllic tales more of a wholesome quality. I think about the years I've gone over these novels and stories, the rewrites, the editing, the polishing, the pain, the rewards, the satisfaction, the tears as well. I think about my divorce, the religion, the failed relationships, the personal demons and hell, and I feel like I have a strong foundation to base a lot of ideas off of. I've been lucky to have this driving force to continue to express--for no real reason than because I love it. I do it for me, like you do it for you, and I put everything into it I can, like you do, and nothing makes me happier. It is--as perhaps a poet would say--a place among the stars.

Nevertheless, the tales that get penned now are not anything like what are at bloodredtales. Sure, they have their darker moments of emotion, their sadnesses, even their mental imbalances, but things change, and sometimes new perceptions allow room for newer ideas, perhaps bigger, grander, more emotional, meaningful, or long-lasting ideas. The dark is always home, a place I can go, love and appreciate. They always have room for me there, and often, when I've been away too long, I'm anxious to get back to some traditional roots.

Speaking of tradition, I've gone back to writing by hand, an intimate, virtually romantic way of getting closer to the words and the art. Purer, too, I guess. I've been reading Dickens, Poe, Hawthorne, James, even Jane Austen again, which I love because these people are our models. For people like you and me, it's hard to imagine life without them. I can't believe I forgot how beautiful A Tale of Two Cities was, or Dracula, not only as good as I remember it, but even better the second time around. Poe always has something new to teach me. There is simply abundance in each of his tales. This is why we keep the books on the shelves, I think. We don't want them, quite literally, to ever leave us. I could go on and on. For me, it's these classic stories and the language they are told in, something we just don't see these days, except by a talented, chosen few. The authors who pen lyrically, (Jonathan Carroll, Ramsey Campbell, Peter Straub--just to name a few) seem to take us back to their original love and appreciation for these writers of old. They do it in a contemporary way. What poetry! I think it's vitally important to remember, especially as writers. Of course, I'm just assuming here.

But back to the mood-thing, and why I'm writing this. I guess I don't feel the same as I do, say, five years ago, or even as short as a year. This is change in a good way, though. I might not know the exact reason for it, but I do know that. Still, it seems strange, like I'm always scrutinizing myself, always on the lookout, trying to figure out more about life and how to get a better handle on it. The American Dream...? I work full time, come home to a bachelor lifestyle, watch all the hockey I can ingest, read all I want, and write when the true inspiration hits. Not a bad way to go through each day, if I do say so myself.

The reason I talk about all this is because I fail to see it sometimes. I think about all the other things I'd rather not go into now, but the most important things are there. The writing, the reading, the leisure, and the relaxing time a body needs to recharge. Publication has opened a little door, and though rejections still bombard me, like I'm sure they do you, I always find the energy to send one off at the post office, or click the button, via email.

I want to thank everybody who has spent time at BloodRedTales and read the stories. You have no idea what this does for me. Many of you have contacted me personally and said some very nice things. Thank you for that. I might be shedding some tears after all this, because I am rather sensitive to this sort of thing. So thank you.

Also, I know the tales here have been up for a while, and its probably time I posted some new ones, but the fact is, I never realized having my own stories on the web was considered published until after the website had been designed. That was just me being naive. And, of course, now that they're up, no one will publish them except as reprints, and even that is hard to do. So, though I have maybe a hundred other tales, I thought it best getting those into other avenues. Besides, these tales are only a very, very small handful. Maybe you have some suggestions. If so, I'm all ears.

Anyway, now that this it's done, I realize it was something I needed to get off my chest, something I needed to express in order to bring us closer. That was my inspiration. I feel better having done it whether I came to a conclusion or not. I come to my own. You come to yours. I think that's good enough for both of us.

Here's to you and yours during the upcoming holidays. Be safe and festive!

We'll see you next time, friends, and thanks for stopping by.

Happy Halloween!

And so the Halloween season is upon us. Here's to hoping you had a fabulous summer and all your schoolwork is going well. The house is decorated with goblins and ghouls, and the horror movies or coming out a little more often at my house. I like to let them play as I write. I'm not so distracted by the screaming. Makes me laugh, actually. Monsters growling, girls screaming. Is there a better form of entertainment?

I want to take this time to thank Professor Delphinius "J.C." Tucker, for the kindness he showed me and the kind words he said, which can be found at:
http://delphinius.atwaz.com/Conservatory/archive_jul08.php

What kind words! Thank you, Professor, and Cheers!

I just wanted to say have a safe and Happy Halloween as well, and for the Anthologies who published me this year. I'm proud to be a part of it, and hope for more publishing success. It's been a good year. Here's to you, horror fans, music fans, artists in general the world over. Keep expressing!

Some Time Away...

I just got back from eight days of fun in the sun in Sun Valley, Idaho at Anderson Lake. Ever been there? It's beautiful. Part Hemingway country, and the lake is massive, almost three hundred feet deep in some spots. My mother has finished (hopefully) the roughest part of her cancer treatments. God bless you, mom! She looked rosy and healthy and a few pounds heavier. I mean that in a good way, mother. I'll hear about that one later.

The kids got together for mom's sake, waterskiing, dirt biking, good food, camp fire, full moon, plenty of stars, and lots of laughter. It was good to get away. My first few days back to work, I was still on the lake. We saw a bald eagle, chased it in the boat for a while as it flew over the water. Deer ran everywhere, even a couple of bucks. My brother, being the snake charmer he is, went hunting snakes and had some luck.

The water was perfect, 74 degrees. I got on the wake board for the first time, and when I wasn't feeling cocky, switching and trying to cut the water, I made a few face plants. Ouch! That'll jog you back to reality. But I was ready to go again when the boat came around.

It definitely recharged the batteries. I feel a little calmer, not high strung like I did before I went. (Mainly because of work. Whoever said working in a bookstore was easy? The phone rings constantly. I can't believe how many people don't know where Mark Twain is) I had some personal demons to face on my own, I suppose, and it wasn't really an effort. One night, I took a walk out with my Uncle, who'd come down from California, and we stared at the full moon while standing on the dam. I loved the way the moon illuminated the hills to every side. Scorpio was barely visible to the south. I'm a Scorpio, so I notice things like that. I had some private moments, thinking about life, where I was then, and where I am now, and if anything was perfect, it was then. I had no qualms. I was just glad to be with my family, my brothers and sister, my nieces, and my mom and uncle. Even my sister's boyfriend, George, came along. He introduced me to some Otep. George is a great guy. Everyone likes him.

As all was said and done, like all vacations, it went by way too fast, and the next thing I knew, I was home again, back at work. I started a new story, relaxed in to the lateness of summer, and gradually watched the college students come back into town. It was a great way to end the summer.

Here's hoping you had similar adventures and great memories this summer!

Blood Red Tales Gets A Makeover

Since Blood Red Tales has been up, lots has happened. I don't know where to begin. I've met some great people, had some great help, got published in a couple of respectable anthologies, and heard from some fans. Blood Red, in that time, has gotten a makeover. Some of the tales could always be better, but not only have the tales been polished since, I've been fortunate to talk with some great and very kind artists. Their work is displayed, with links on my About The Author page, as to where to find more. It has been an exciting year. And I'm still trying to get more exposure, more publications, and meet new people. For everyone who helps, you have to help someone else. That's the rule. Blood Red Tales is not just about fiction. It's about great artwork and spreading light in dark places. It might be dark and bloody content, but that doesn't mean we can't have some laughs and help others along the way. After all, a dark sense of humor is healthy.

Check out some of the prints, if you are so inclined, and drop those artists an email. We're all in this together. Bringing passion to life.
Later....

Art As Teacher

The funny thing about life and its relation to horror...Or, in this case, art, which we all know reflects life, and vice-versa. As artists, honesty is essential. Without it, where does your art go? Does it fade into the shallow confines of one dimensional expression and fail to skim the surface of catharsis? Without the pain of honesty, no true creation can touch another's life. Of course, there are artists who do not create for others, let alone show the world their work. I create for myself, but still want to show the world my work, so I would like to meet these people and have coffee with them. We could chat about our inner demons, our life-long quest to create, to learn, to pursue. Maybe we could learn a few things about each other along the way.

I'm not talking solely about horror, of course, but art in all categories, genres, and sub-genres. The canvas, music, sculpting, photography, along with writing, and every art form imaginable reflects. It's a mirror. I think as true artists, those who are unafraid to say how they feel, express their honesty no matter how detrimental it may be to them as people or their state of mind. They could care less what you think of them as people. They want their art understood, appreciated. They want you to see them as artists, learn about them through their art. Of course, being a decent person isn't bad either. Hitler was an artist, too, and well...you get the picture.

Artists provide us with something sacred, vital, allowing us to see inside them in ways they can only express through art. This is not only catharsis, in my opinion, but the definition of beauty. Artists are accepting this risk when embarking on the quest, and it's a risk worth taking, at least for the artist. You sacrifice for the sake of the art. Hemingway said "Experience makes the writer," but of course, it applies to all artists, and not just writers. So, this little spiel (not that I know what the hell it's really about, I just felt compelled to write) is something along the lines of honesty, acceptance, pain, and creativity. So, to teach, to learn, we experience pain, the coldness of bleak isolation, the sorrow and anguish of wracking sobs. Yes, it's the old cliche, ladies and gentleman--or underground dwellers--as the case may be. Pain is the greatest teacher, but luckily, as artists, we have an outlet for the confusion, sadness, and turmoil. As to it's relation to horror or art, well, that's where I begin to move this little exercise into a darker abyss.

Like any level of catharsis, some of the greatest work speaks louder through darkness, pain, and sorrow. At least, maybe this is why it reached me on the level it did. Horror made me realize I wasn't alone, and at the time, that was just what little Brandy-boy needed. And let's face it, growing up, we experience nothing but pain. In order to express, I thought loneliness, pain, sadness, and emotional anguish were best expressed through horror. And why not throw in a bleak winter landscape, maybe some freezing rain, just for effect. Ah, now you've got it! The point, I suppose, is that horror--like anything dark or evil--can be therapeutic, thus the catharsis. The blacker the tale, the deeper the understanding; at least I always believed this. Life comes at you hard and unexpected. Sometimes, it can be rude, humbling, and humiliating. Sadness moves, it wracks the body, but it can cleanse. And when it does, there might be enough space for clarity to shift the mind into another perception, or dimension, depending on your preference. Maybe you learn. Maybe you don't. It's a theory based on trial and error, and even as people, (you don't have to be an artist) we're able to appreciate and understand that. The beauty, I supposes, lies in the fact that art, like life, is our teacher, and, of course, vice-versa. We are all artists, in some way, in the painful throes of expression. Life humiliates, shames, pains, and confuses us. So, we cry, but no one hears us. We ache, but no one cares. Until some fateful occurrence, where the possibility presented itself that we touched someone's life. Maybe it made them cry, laugh, or shudder with fear. It doesn't matter. Emotion was evoked. The song had been sung. The tale is done.

As people, as artists, we've bowed as we've left the stage. We've poured our gratitude out and back again. We might be smiling on the inside, but, also, we are weeping torrential currents of light and tears. Life and art hold power. Fearlessness is part of the ingredient, I think. To be unafraid of where your mind takes you. Such a fine fine line, my friends, and perhaps dangerous. Are you willing to take the risk? Well, isn't that why you signed on in the first place? I think it has something to do with sharing the blackest part of you, and not harming, but helping others because of your experiences, pain, and vision. Some have brighter visions, some darker. Both are just as capable of teaching us something new.

I guess, that's enough of a soapbox. Can I get a pompous cheer? Like an evangelical tirade through blogs of horror. That wasn't my intention.

With life, comes pain. With art, comes redemption. Or so we hope. (Maybe a better title would be Philanthropy Through Art. And horror, too.) We learn through both, as painful as it is. The risk you signed on for when you made the commitment. Lessons come in all shapes and sizes. But you don't have to be afraid. Imagination as a lie? A fairy-tale? For shame! I don't think so! There's more realism going on under the shadow of fabrication. Does this mean--as an artist--you are allowed only pain? I don't think I can answer that. All you can do is build a kingdom. We have worlds inside us. Make it real. Teach us what we need to know...