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Sunday, September 17, 2017

Work is Peace. Work is Simplicity. Work is Talking to God.

Dream of the Compass

Work is peace. Work is simplicity. Work is talking to God.

When I wake up every morning, I look forward to working. How many others can honestly claim the same thing?

I don't make money doing this. Not, that is, in any amount that could sustain me. Only a tiny fraction of writers do. It isn't anything to be ashamed about.

Work is peace. Work is simplicity. Work is talking to God.

I look upon my projects as my own children. My namesake four hundred years ago did the same thing with his essays. I'm in very good company. He too didn't make money with his work. Even so, he changed the world, even if you, the reader, aren't aware of how he did, who he was, or what he said.

I'm supposed to kiss your ass. I'm supposed to ask what you want, then write that down, then give it back to you. That's what I'm supposed to do. I'm supposed to damn my uniqueness, my own words.

Art isn't art unless it's highly visible. It isn't art unless it's what the herd wants. Right?


Work is peace. Work is simplicity. Work is talking to God.

This blog exists because I need a place to express my work, to express my simplicity, and to pray. My fractals exist for the same reason. They are words transmuted into color, into dreams, into moments, into prayers. I post because my words and images and dreams and prayers deserve to be seen and read, even if by only a tiny number.

I have to remind myself every single day: the only people who matter to me are those who make themselves matter to me. If you're reading this, you've made yourself matter to me. If you looked at one of my fractals, you made yourself matter to me. If you read a novel of mine, you made yourself matter to me.

I'm supposed to "grow" my audience. I'm supposed to go begging and drooling before the masses. I'm supposed to make myself matter to them. I'm supposed to ask what they want, make that, then give it back to them.

In essence, I'm supposed to give up my uniqueness. That's what is known as "marketing." That's what's known as "being remarkable"--my ability, raised to a sufficiently high enough degree, which is determined by the masses, to beg and drool and regurgitate.

If I beg, drool, and regurgitate for ten thousand hours, will I be considered a "master"?


Work is peace. Work is simplicity. Work is talking to God.

A decade and a half of learning this commitment, of learning what work really is, of learning what my heart and soul want to say, of putting myself out there day after day after day has taught me a great deal about who I am. It has taught me just how "weird" I am. It has made transparent the efforts of so many to corral me and de-fang me and sand off my edges.

I'm scarred by those battles. I didn't emerge from them unscathed. Those scars ache. Sometimes overwhelmingly so. I struggle with bitterness and rage. Some of you may see that in some of my posts here. When the scars flare, I don't try to salve them over. I'm proud of them. They are battle wounds from struggles I ultimately won. Else I wouldn't be here now blogging, writing, and making fractals.


It's difficult not sounding like a cheesy Hallmark card. "Each day is a gift." That's what I was about to write.

That's what suburbans say to each other all the time--"Each day is a gift." It shows up in their greeting cards, in their "inspirational" literature, and in the no-calorie all-sugar platitudes they exchange with each other. It's utterly meaningless--not because it isn't true, but because they simply don't grok the full import of it. They can't! They are too busy marketing to each other--finding out what the other person wants and giving that back to them. They are mirrors. Mirrors mirroring mirrors ... forever.

Who am I supposed to market to again?


Prayer. Not on bended knee, but here at the keyboard. Prayer as work. Prayer as simplicity. Prayer as peace, even though the scars ache. Even though, right now, I am overwhelmed by them.

You matter to me. You read this far. Thank you for that.



  1. As a city slicker, this post is a special reminder of what's important. Thank you.

    1. I'm a city slicker too, dude. Or--an ex one. It doesn't really matter where you live in the end--city or country or in-between. It's the workings between your ears and in your heart that matters. That's how I see it, anyway.

      I appreciate you dropping by the blog! I was thinking of writing you today, but sat staring at the blank email field and couldn't come up with anything intelligent or worth a damn, so gave up, thinking I'd pop you an email this weekend. I'm glad you beat me to the punch here!

      Please let me know how you're doing!


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