I think of art as something that you do, it has a tradition, it is a thing to do, a choice, a recognized and documented human activity. No big deal, really. Art is clearly existing strongly for me, I know the thrill, cultural/chemical. Getting it, giving it, making it, finding it--those endorphins fire. Feels good. We should indulge ourselves. For the artist the working, the feeling, is constant--it's only the glamour that comes and goes. (How can I write this?. . . going through life like I do so weird and alienated? Maybe this is what I try to keep telling myself to keep myself going. I've spent my life developing sensitivity to something noone gives a shit about.) The artist is someone standing on the corner singing. The singer makes this expression, her actual self, voice, body, skin, hair, she is there, she has it in her, she's coming out with it, and who knows perhaps there is someone to hear. The artist is standing apart only because no one else is on the corner singing. Most are crossing the street to avoid the disgraceful spectacle.