“Real artists have a moment when they lose control of their art and surrender to their intuition.” said the thin man in the immaculate suit. “Where they are operating purely unconsciously and it feels like they are channeling something outside of themselves. Acting as this kind of conduit is incredibly satisfying. The creative and destructive forces flowing through you are shaped by the limits of your imagination. You are conjuring your dreams into reality in a form that is shareable with others. It’s magic. True magic.”
The sea of grass waved in acknowledgement.
“Bringing about something of yourself, replicating, stands as a fragile challenge to the end hovering over us.” he continued. “In this way we feel something of creation, of the infinite. For that reason these moments of minor transcendence are so precious. Being a channel for forces beyond yourself is akin to shamanism or possession or witchcraft – there are spirits that come through your consciousness that you can fashion into symbols and others that you will meet along the way and not all are friendly.”
The moon was rising, bathing the scene in pale blue light.
“Treading this path risks pain and demands sacrifice of self and others in search of the muse, which depending on your God of choice will happily abuse your worship or leave you at the altar with shadows and dust, pitiful. Each artist has spirits they are drawn to and perhaps the spirits are drawn to them too as conduits. Is a spirit a feeling? Is it an abstract concept? Is it a living being? Capable of conversation?”
The seas of grass crashed forward towards the thin man like waves.
“Perhaps they are only metaphors. Perhaps that feeling of something else writing the words, writing something so inevitable, fated, is just my self disappearing, me losing the self-awareness of my ordinary thought and merging completely with my operating self, so that I am pure motion, I am whole, I am in harmony with my deepest feelings and expressing them creatively in a holy celebration of life. Or maybe something is out there, talking to me, and I need only turn myself off.”
The seas of grass awaited him.
“And listen.”
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