Where U at, Who U wit?

In 850 words we’re gonna flick the switch.

I find when I’m depressed, art helps.

I find when I’m elated, art elevates things even more.

We make art out of death and call it cuisine. We turn our thoughts into tangible things and give them to each other as “books”. We make art out of not freezing and call it fashion. Our houses have gables, porticos, and—for some strange reason—cheesy stone lions.

I remain surrounded by books, movies, paintings, music…ideas of beauty, fury, sound, intent. People walking into my apartment get treated to a gallery of dragons, gods, merfolk and plants. Real plants. Plants are supreme artists.

Me, I like to write things.

I need art to see where I am, where I’m going, where I’ve been and where I’d like to be, not in an escapist way of Garmin telling me nothing more than how to get to Helm’s Deep, but living life as my halfway decent attempt at Humanity via that sense of deeper guidance available to us through art, which is nothing more than each one of us telling somebody else, “This right here, this thing, is a piece of what I see of existence. Help me bridge it to something?”

I’m not one of those who’ll say he has nothing of interest to say. Everybody has something to say. To observe and report is 99% of the entire concept of art. But know what you’re saying, know why you’re saying it, and, for all gods’ sakes, know when to say it. Art can help you be site specific. “Reading the room” might sound snarky but it actually points to a huge problem in the world, one that often leads to depression (I find when I’m depressed, art helps): the world’s empathy net has massive rips in it. People thrash like snapping sharks even when they want to appear happy. Under this stress, art can become an Id Grid rather than an Imagination Waystation. We lose the ability to observe and connect. Instead, we repeat, we neglect. Under the Id Grid, aspiration becomes too painful to think about. Authenticity becomes a threat. Lashing out becomes soothing balm.

Clear some space in the heart for what you know you need to say or see minus any random bullshit of the day. The entire universe surrounds and binds! Be the Force, Luke! Tell us what you’ve seen. Please. We need that. We as individuals + we as species. These meatbrains are wired to be telegraph machines. Everything around everything is a dot-dot-dash in the code. Using sight beyond sight is us showing how we thread this dream. Do/Be a poem when needed; be a limerick if it fits. I often whisper seductively in art’s ear, “Show me what is epic, educate me on the intimate. Root yourself so deep you tickle a mountain’s butt; reach upward and outward till I realize, to my delight, we’re flying. Make a wish and then, in some part of you, know you’ve literally created a universe where that wish is true.” Nae shame in an honest art game.

Thoughts have matter. Whether we say God hid itself in every one of us, or each one of us is a god of marvels and creation, no one exists on this planet without creating something. I don’t care if you’re depressed or giddy. Beauty helps.

Beauty isn’t always the absence of pain. Beauty is intention of thought and act reaching toward understanding.

Understanding is medicinal. Even the attempt to understand. Robitussin, hot ginger ale, and Vick’s rubbed on the chest. The comfort of the ages.

Art is comfort. Check the verb. Art doesn’t comfort. Art is comfort. Art created or received is our voice letting others know we’re here. It’s a touch enlightening us toward togetherness. It’s the interplay of light and shadow smoothing overworked neural pathways while illuminating areas for new directions. Art rocks. Always has, always will.

So even if all you want to do is create a moment between you and your cat; finally finish writing a mega blockbuster mega series; watch every episode of The Twilight Zone in chronological order; chop up spicy pickles in your mac & cheese; listen to Prince’s Black Album 17 times; start a garden on your front lawn; be the movement to abolish for-profit jurisprudence; draw in a style you’ve never attempted before; tangle with issues of greed and loneliness on a spacefaring planet that has 4 nearby moons; bake the kind of cookies you know will make someone smile; wonder why—and wonder long, wonder so hard—why in the world we can’t smell the sky…just sit for a minute and let your thoughts wander. Let ‘em go far, they’re OK. You can still see ‘em from where you are. And even if they enter a copse, or suddenly reveal they’ve been fae all along and are about to shimmer away toward some other green realm, you can always raise your voice. Call those thoughts back. You have that voice. Your thoughts, being art, will come running happily to tell what it’s seen.

We need art. Mine and yours. Now:

Flick.