To create a legend, a myth, a dream, a new reality—one’s own. The ancient Egyptians said nothing is until it has been spoken into being. I must speak myself into being. My myth, dream, reality. Word art; timeless as all art essentially is. Time is only the patina (and, in the best art, an interesting one). What is essential—style, emotion, the metaphysics of relationship (no matter who or what with)—is never dated when that and not the patina is what grabs the reader most.

Myth: woven out of experience, memory, insight, longing, achievement. Above all, imagination.

Dream: creation in the abstract. Raw material of a life, an art, of one’s own.

Reality: no essential difference between it and dream. Architecture of the dream, upon which is built new worlds of thought, relationship; danced into being by words, images.

Words that dance on the page, the screen, reflect a body that dances through time. This is elemental. What is magical, marvelous, unusual are the permutations that occur when one reality collides with another. Or caresses another. Or expunges another.

Permutations, relationships, that give life and art their style, their meaning, their sanity or madness. Their creative aspect, their interest. Their tone of freedom.

Freedom tolerates, celebrates, everything but unfreedom. The artist who isnt internally free has little, if anything, to say to those thirsting for a creative, a truly original, response in a world of automatons, moribund values, stultified status quo. A dream not just derailed, but effectually dead. Or perhaps, rather, stuck in a limbo of dying, never quite alive and never quite dead: unreal. It strangles, emasculates; it will never understand real freedom, nor the art created out of it.

To create freedom . . . a life and an art that speak, sing, celebrate my joy as well as my perplexity. That dance my anxieties and my spiritual victories. My newness (new world, new reality, etc.) alongside the ancient voices—voices of ancestors that possess me, that guide me. And the voice of my own memory, experience, insight . . . patina’d with the accents of its day perhaps, but essentially flesh. My flesh in words; a body of language, a style, a soul constantly spoken into being. Thus, poet.