…think that artists are nice people who gratefully sit around making work in a peaceable way.  That we do not confront life and all of its various struggles.  That we spend hours picking the wings off of dead butterflies in bucolic settings.

Bullshit.

Art is all about struggle.  The struggle to understand.  The struggle to be seen.  To be heard.

You know, don’t you, that I’ve been banging on about this film I want to make (if I do or not is another matter) but those who read it are unimpressed by the ending.  They call it a suicide note.

The ending isn’t very good.  It’s melodramatic and unconvincing.  It needs rewriting.

Life and art.  Art and life.  The two mingling, revealing…the truth.

The story evolves.

People are not what you think.  They make choices that reveal so much more than they ever intended.

Some people cast characters in their life like they are directing their own reality TV show.

You know, I’m not a very nice person and that is obvious to many…but, as they said after the John Edwards trial, nasty people are not sent to prison for being nasty…it is not enough that you don’t like me.

Whilst they could blame me for his problems they conveniently forgot him and his glaring defects.

Who are you?

I have always been fascinated by the grotesque.

The little dog stayed over night at the vet.  Rattle snake bite.  His paw and front leg swollen to twice, three times the size.   It’s touch and go if he’ll survive.

Since they let me out of the jail we have been distant.   It’s just the way it is.  Yesterday I pressed my forehead against his and told him not to die…we have other adventures ahead of us.