Art Is Not Meant To Be Created

Since Time Out Of Mind, A Considered Act Of Heroism Has Been The Cure For Stultifying Ambivalence.

When A Woman Is Frozen Of Feeling, When She Can No Longer Feel Herself, When Her Blood, Her Passion, No Longer Reach The Extremities Of Her Psyche, When She Is Desperate; Then A Fantasy Life Is Far More Pleasurable Than Anything Else She Can Set Her Sights Upon. Her Little Match Lights, Because They Have No Wood To Burn, Instead Burn Up The Psyche As Though It Were A Big Dry Log. The Psyche Begins To Play Tricks On Itself; It Lives Now In The Fantasy Fire Of All Yearning Fulfilled. This Kind Of Fantasizing Is Like A Lie: If You Tell It Often Enough, You Begin To Believe It.

Story Is Far Older Than The Art Of Science And Psychology, And Will Always Be The Elder In The Equation No Matter How Much Time Passes.

It's Not The Failure That Holds Us Back But The Reluctance To Begin Over Again That Causes Us To Stagnate.

When Women Hear Those Words, An Old, Old Memory Is Stirred And Brought Back To Life. The Memory Is Of Our Absolute, Undeniable, And Irrevocable Kinship With The Wild Feminine, A Relationship Which May Have Become Ghostly From Neglect, Buried By Over-domestication, Outlawed By The Surrounding Culture, Or No Longer Understood Anymore. We May Have Forgotten Her Names, We May Not Answer When She Calls Ours, But In Our Bones We Know Her, We Yearn Toward Her, We Know She Belongs To Us And We To Her.