“The worst artists look only to the self: people who write down their dreams and relate their drug trips and describe, as close to truth as their side allows, their painful break-ups. The second worst artist looks only at the external: didactic faux-revolutionaries, critical theory poseurs, Foucault fucks, nature writers. The best artists find the point where the self co-mingles with the external. The self and the state. You and your partner. Fathers and Sons. It’s really really hard to sit on this point and it shifts, which accounts for the varying quality of work in a person’s career–this balance is constantly in flux.”
—Carey Mercer, MBV
[“We sow the songs, the Earth bears our wrong, our pales wrongs all along!” moaned the Beast to the archangel and the pitied woman.]
If you go to see Maia, remember: eldest of the seven daughters; a feminine vessel fertile in demeanor with black eyes lively by the fire. From where she sits, only women come courting but these women seek only words and a twist of the wrist, nothing else. And Maia’s left arm is adorned with pearl-white bangles that fasten at her hand. She brings this hand before her courters and speaks in aphorisms: “Romance is mostly being lied to,” she offers.
And, if you’re going with the Snake: remember that it wraps its nubile belly around the grand piano pedal before you pound on the keys.