Somedays I sit in front of the white blank precipice of creation and wonder what will come next, all the while creating the next. Having the next created for me. Unknowingly, rocks have disturbed the surface, undulating, disturbing the dark recesses that would stay quiet if left to their own devices, stirring the lethargic soul.
Detached is an illusion, a pride. Disconnected, a falsehood. Influenced is the always reality. It is not a question of will there be influences. It is a question of influenced by whom.
There is no true isolation. Tenuous connections like a spider’s web or connections carried out by fairies (sometimes called the internet). Forever connections solidified by wedding rings, by blood, by Golden Gate Bridge, 36 3/8″ steel cables.
I am a smith, hammering steel to bend to my will, a sculptor, chiseling away all that is not my art.
I am a hammer, held in the hands of a greater smith, a chisel, held in the hands of a greater sculptor.
I am metal, yielding to a shape I would not have sought. I am stone, moving into shapes that I would have fought.
William Stonewall Monroe