Sunday blues

I have no idea whether anyone can see this blog.  Or will.  Or whether I even want them to.  I spent last year or two thinking about the difference between public art and private art.  Puzzling and really puzzling it out.  Now I know there is no difference.  A posture perhaps that happens more with public art but for it to be truly reachable, it must be private and from that private space that is privately totally public - i.e. accessible.

It is Sunday and I am making a roast so I can't leave the house.  I opened all the doors so the house would not smell like pork butt then all the bees came in and are buzzing around the skylight.

Sundays are always aimless.  We sit staring at the walls.  I do not like it, but as I tell my daughter, liking is besides the point.

It is not that we go beyond emotion but that we actually have less emotionality.  Unrepressed.  Natural resting space has no emotions.  I know that.  I like emotions because they make me feel alive and it's a way to relate to others.  But there is relating beyond emotion and I know that.  That is where to live now.  How?  It's not catchable.  It moves very fast at times and others it is still unmoving endless.

My left ear hurts and my left head hurts and I read that they have found a new pathway in the brain.  It was covered by something very thick.  It's what ages you, they think.