How much do you allow yourself to feel and act out the characters in your written/spoken/painted/sewn/sculpted art?

How many imperfections will you build into your crafts?

Can a CPU survive radiation bombardment?

Can a two-legged cricket find a mate and reproduce?

How can…?

Can how…?

Are cardinals and robins related?

Does goldenrod grow everywhere?

Is being me more important than serving the “art” world of vainglorious competition for the newest creative sensation?

Sometimes, I forget that art is life.

The woman who feels herself perfect a happy, efficient route from home to work…

…the boy who makes the highest score on a computer game…

…the spendthrift who saves all his money to buy a round-the-world ecotourism trip before he dies…

…deserving or undeserving, we find and create an artistic moment or two in our lives.

Mine is living here but imagining us living on Mars in the 2030s, transforming our bodies and culture.

Then, one thousand years from now, finding this era impossible to imagine.

Yet, I live as a distinct set of states of energy, perhaps pretending to know that Mossad denies paying an opposition group to launch missiles into Israel to keep the profitable Middle East Tension War going.

The game of life continues now into infinity.

I can write about works of art like the movie “Elling,” a Cuckoo’s Nest Odd Couple, or do something besides writing.

Every moment is the last one I have to live.

I choose how I wish to live my life….

…how I choose to express my thoughts about previous moments.

With whomever I please.

As long as I can.

Overcoming an age-related calm that slowly settles in.

Dropping hints about what’s going to happen next in our lives.

Because I can, and choose to, write.

Imperfect me perfectly being me.

Because this moment is all I’ve got.

Time to muse on another Muse and write new characters into an amusing story – satire, irony or slapstick, as needed.

Plant an idea and watch it grow.