We Are Art

Some late night thoughts on a Sunday night as I sit in my study alone.  I just finished a couple of books on how to make your life more like an adventure and regard everything as art ... I have to suspend the naturally skeptical side of me so as not to inject so-called "negative energy" or "bad vibes" into this piece.  That would not be good.  After all, we all are artists.  Just as we all are philosophers, scientists, scholars, writers, geniuses.  


So ... now I am a artist and my life is filled with awe.  It is awe-some.  I live art.  I live out loud.  I am an explorer of the world.  I pick up dirt and examine it for the first time and see the wonderous miracle and beauty it contains.  I jot down notes randomly and they become sonorous poetry, singing to the depths of our collective souls.  My life is art.  My life is a museum.  My life is poetry.  I could say the same thing about my snot and my shit, both of which I am over-abundantly full, but I don't want to sound facetious or exude "negative energy."  Besides, there are some who might actually agree that snot could be poetic.  

At any rate, I have taken up drawing cartoons.  Mind you, they are almost stick-figures, but they amuse me.  I am the main character, of course, and I have innane conversations about non-events.  I even bought some colored pencils, and I may even take up a superficial study of art to amuse myself.  I have no pretensions.  None.  This is done solely to amuse an old man who is trying to pass time until he retires, and then after that, if I continue, to fill up time in the day, along with a dozen other things I plan to do after my "post-work" life begins.  "Artistically," of course, since I am living art.  Breathing art.  Eating art.  %$*&-ing art.  And philosophy.  Oh yes, let us not forget philosophy, the first and last mistress, demanding dominatrix that she is.