The moment your last success convinces you that your next effort is going to be a hit is the moment you’re doomed.
When an idea is only as good as its ability to hold space until the next idea flickers onto our screen, a more fundamental devaluing of life has begun to take hold.
Wherever the holiday finds you, you’re obviously reading this, which therefore means you’re alive. That’s not something to forget, or waste.
Like a virus, an idea doesn’t look like much without the context of the place and time where it interacts with the world.
Soldier, student, seer: it doesn’t matter. Looking into the void we can't help but marvel, ponder, feel something shared and private at the same time.
What fascinates me, and sometimes torments me, is the recognition of all the many different ways I see people create things, ways that sometimes elude me and make me envy their facility.
The process of successful creation is intangible. I know there is sky above me and I know there is air all around me and I know that the air around me connects directly to the sky above me. Somewhere the two meet, but the dividing line is a fiction of language, a function of our senses being given over to words. There is no dividing line between air and sky, but we describe the expanse of blue overhead as something different than the wind moving leaves on the trees.
Rarely do ideas survive for long if they’re not worthy. But just because some expressions have been perceived as shocking does not automatically make them irrelevant or useless. In fact, provocations in creative thought are not only natural but necessary.
When I walk into a book store I hear lives in chorus, humanity suggesting that it might have a redeemable essence, that we just might overcome the forces always trying to undo our best parts.
Rainy days often insulate my thoughts. They’re full of potential, of opportunity. They have an inherent romance to them, saturated with feeling. A rainy day helps contain free associations, concentrate focus, bring outward views inward.