A friend recently jibed that I was obsessed with being great and death. I agreed, laughing secretly, but the laughter rang on the hollow wall of half-truths, and so was ultimately unsatisfying. There was an enormous rift between the jibe and my obsession, which isn’t even the right word. Much closer to the open canyon of truth, spoken by the very true and noble Iggy Pop, “People hate it when you’re being creative. They hate it.”
It’s not simply that I withstand the dogpile of hate, even more onerous now that I’ve magipiled into the form of a Zen monk, but that the body of work must be sound, elemental, formed of atomic bonds so enduring even dharma trolls would have no effect. It must make sense, thrown down whatever hall. If it wasn’t an all-consuming, do or die catastrophe of a work, I’d be cut down in a storm of swords. Death, it’s the work. It’s formed of it, imbued in it. What else?