I write because


I didn’t know who Flannery O’Connor was at the beginning of this week and I still don’t but I know I want to.

I’ve been looking at art today. But I don’t want to just look at it. I want to feel it and touch it and absorb it. I want to be it. I want to be living art.

But the world is so chaotic and cheap and loud. There is no room for subtlety and edgy at this point is so mainstream and typical that to exceed it is to be hatchet. Sloppily chopping madly and desperately trying to be… what? Ultimately: invulnerable.  It’s the new black.

Even colors are put through an artificialization process before hitting the shelves. The mad glow of the 80s is being out done by the new neon.

There is a soft feminism going on also. Floral pastel lace and light weight fabrics that are just spun plastic. Whatever happened to cotton? 

Fake vintage. Owls. They even have old timey hand sets you can plug into your iPhone 5. But why?

There’s very little room for originality.

And if you lose that then it’s incredibly difficult to believe that you matter. After all you’re just like everyone else.

Everyone is an idealist living like a rat in a maze. Which is an overused yet apt metahor.

The planet is overrun with people fighting for great big causes and ignoring the tiny individuals that just want to be seen.

I challenge you to make eye contact with a stranger. Smile. It might feel awkward but that is because it’s foreign. And that is tragic.

And I guess, Ms. O’Connor, that is what I’m thinking.


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