A Manifesto

I have nothing but the most maddeningly vague sense, out of the corner of my eye, of what my real work is about, my work as an artist and as a human being. I have some intellectualizations about it which I don’t think are entirely wrong, but that also fall far short of describing it or offering any help in closing the gap between that sense, that feeling, and where my work is at right now or where it can even go in the foreseeable future. The best description I can muster is that it’s a great cosmic emptiness that I can taste, that with all my being I long to enter and more fully experience, so that I can show it to you, because it’s vast and terrifying and full of so much hope, infinite hope, for all of creation and all of humanity, for each and every one of us. It’s a hope that I’ve always carried with me, even in my darkest, most terrible moments. It’s why I could write a month ago that despite my recurring bouts of depression, I have never, ever been suicidal. It’s my thing. It’s the thing that I was given before I was even born, but that I selfishly hoarded for forty years, or that I was too afraid to show, maybe because it always seemed so cruel to say that you should have hope when you can legitimately see none, when you have every reason to be hurting. Maybe it’s because the people who try to inspire hope are often killed for it, because there’s nothing that misery and pain despise more than hope. But I don’t want to hoard it anymore. I don’t want to run from it anymore. I want you to see it. It hurts how much I want you to see it. I can’t carry this all on my own. In love and ecstasy I say this to you, but even more so to myself because I’m still so far away,

Oh, my darling! If only you could see!