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Thanks to the midday Sun for hosting me as I write this. I've never depended on a stranger kindness.
I know compulsive behavior and passion have two distinct meanings but lately I feel like I've been incapable of distinguishing between the two. It's a terrible euphoria, acting without will and to your own detriment because the whole coded world translates into a costly song that must be written or a broom-of-a-girl you have to talk to (even though she lives on a steep hill and you're a terrible climber) or some-such nonsense. I've mentioned an unfinished Moth!Fight! song here before; one that uses the character of H.H. Holmes to prescribe meaning to this aspect of the human experience. I'm beginning to think he's not the best fabric to cover this armchair discussion in that he didn't experience any sort of financial, social, or emotional ruin due to his compulsion. His passion is of a different currency than Thomas Chatterton, Sarah Winchester, or Gary Wilson. Those denizens of creation that let blood so as to paint with the right shade of red! I'd like to hold a listening party with them, for them. It'd be an open invitation to everyone's romantic heroes and we'd absorb those whose style is art brut and whose medium is life itself.
Question overheard at this party:
Betty Page, were you bound for the promised land?
