Art has lost its artists. They are an army of missing persons.
They are away tending to the banalities of email, facebook, and television.
This morning I could have written a great song, or waded through writing one of the hundreds of poor songs that make up the intervals between great songs.
I could have rendered an idea. Instead, I allowed it to slip from me.
50 letters in my inbox everyday beckon me away from doing what I always dreamed I'd do: write great songs, record great songs, and live and breathe DIY music.
How many great songs, plays, papers, and ideas, go unrendered because of our social priorities? Let Howard Beale have your ear for a moment (caution: the following clip contains necessary profanity):
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