Sunday, December 19, 2010


I have lost count of the men I have met where I accepted the "genius-banker", the computer expert, the sexy bartender, the doe-eyed movie usher, the awkward store clerk as the reality, and the artist in any of them a very vague possibility. Even if they managed to play an instrument, were in a band, wrote poetry or essay
I have written my entire life, I have had a singing voice that comes naturally to me, I have read countless books, I have dabbled into jewelry making and sketching, yet I do not consider myself an artist. I have art in my bloodlines, and I would have loved to have inherited my paternal grandfather's ability to sit and sketch anyone, anything, at any time. I am sure if I bothered to take art classes, I could be slightly above average with my charcoal drawings, but it was never something I really decided to take seriously.

Writing has never been my art form, but more of a lifeline. It is something that I would continue even if I never have had anything published. If the internet never existed, I would still have the wonderful world of zines and zine distros.

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