January 22, 1995

For some time now I have lived in this space, telling stories to the walls. Stories of my life that didn't need to be told, but needed to be recalled, at least by me. These are the stories of my life.

For a longer time I have been concerned with life, stories of my life and how the relate. Do the stories really reflect my life? Does my life somehow emulate the stories?

I know now that my life is these stories, and these stories are my life. The big deal here is that the stories are everything that my life is.

For a long time I searched for true belief. There was science, art, human nature, and love. All of these beliefs offered the hope of purpose. I say hope ëhope ofí, because they never did provide. There is nothing in these pursuits that makes our lives. All we have is our lives.

At first that thought scared me. I was all alone with myself. There was no greater purpose, no purpose to live on.

I soon realized that I had worked hard to get to that point, and there was some purpose. A silly phrase that I had been jokingly using seemed to fit. LIFE IS ART.

LIFE is ART. ART is LIFE. All the meaning of my life is in there. We make meaning of our lives as we must. We are driven to create, to live. We bring to it our time, our heart and soul, our experience, our thoughts, and our creativity.

It all has meaning for us that no one else can divine. Yet to interact we must all try to make something of another's craft. We can only see a sculpture and maybe touch it. We can not feel the sculptors inspiration, or taste his breakfast. We can not know the meaning of the sculpture. All that we can universally acknowledge is the existence on the materials and their physical properties. We know that we are all alive. We know that we are driven to go on. We must each know the meaning of our own art.

These stories are the meaning of my art. These are the stories of my life. Life is Art.