Art That Makes Us Bleed, I Beg You.

Sharing a first pass at something utterly massive that wants to be written and has selected me to be it’s vessel. Ive ignored this task for long enough, so I’m starting.
Writers will know the terrible feeling of getting starting, shedding the bad drafts to make way for better ones. This is just exercise for me, artistic fitness, if you will. For those interested in this exercise, I’ll share the workout below.

1) Write Raw. Really Raw. Write to failure, so to speak. The end.

Where are the others? Those who understand there is no greater proof of love, of life and its potential, than art expressed deeply, art expressed at all?

Where are the others? And where am I? Did I get lost again, in the safety? Did I find a tunnel to nowhere, and tell myself a lie to stay on flat ground, just for a moment, even though God promised: “the joy, my darling, my love, is in the climb.”

Can you, with your art, help me rediscover myself in the climb, out in the cold, like magic remembering itself, out at the bleeding edge – tearful, sober, smiling – grateful for and engaged in another beautiful day?

This is our fear: loving one another, creating for another, this deeply, fear of being this loved, this creative, and worthy of both. Fear in the innermost chamber of our selves, where we learned to savor the sickness of safety, of involution, of sitting down and staying put, taught to fear a life lived entirely for possibility, every single day.

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I crave to write from a place in my body no one sees but God so you can find that place in you, the stillwater reservoirs within yourself. I need you to know what I know for sure: that everything is beautiful, everything is beauty itself. I crave to make it clear that this lifetime was the worst one yet, and the best – sweet and saturated with all of the right things.

I want you to read my work and ask yourself, "Who is this terrible, sensual woman, alive and full? Why is she bursting? Who did she love? When were they torn from her hands, from her clenched hands? How many times has she lived this, and how many more times has she survived? Can I survive the same thing? (you can) And, what is this inexhaustible light that burns her alive and keeps her awake? Is she willing to share the light with me?" (I am).
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Art that reaches out with its brush strokes as if with lips, with air in its lungs, from your lungs to mine. Art like a kiss. Art that is raw and fills me up. Art that saturates the great emptiness between us with eros, the littlelotmorethanjustsomething, that forces us to confront the mystery with our bodies. Art that says, “I would bleed for you, and have already, and would do it again.”

Let's create art that reminds us: they could drain the blood from our beloved bodies and they would only find each other's secrets, tightly held and cherished. Because we know each other already, and always have. We bleed together. How did we forget that?

I beg you: have the courage to bleed, then show me the wound. Let me see the part of you that was pierced so completely that I see Grace on the other side, waiting for it to have it’s way with me, waiting for us to have our way with one another.

Another world is possible, and yes, in our lifetime.

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