The gnostics believed perfection to be the state before something exists. Making, itself, was murder: the performance of an idea was to them a mistake in action. Bullshit, aside from a fact: creation must weather a storm, sometimes grey, sometimes abject. The abjected, the cast off, was both their fear and their proof of wasted making. The nomad asks what you think you could have wasted. The nomad, too, has cast off something they wanted to keep, to nurture, to be proud off. But the nomad, too, has had the original misfortune: turning back on something you made. The nomad, too, has fucked up. But mistakes mean things, too. Travelers, artists, professionals, procrastinators even, understand the fouls of time and a changing mind as integral to a process designed to challenge you to sculpt ideas, buildings, stories, selves. Sometimes, snaking along the way you notice Yours does not look like Yours anymore. What you mean is not always what you do; For some it is worth it; writing, sometimes uncertainly—sometimes, even, uninspired—is thinking in itself. Tear the page if compelled; burn it all and start again; delete it, sometimes that's the start. In your head ideas may shimmer but you can still say Fuck it when the page dims them. One star in a matte black mind, a word on an oppressively white page. Do this a dozen times and Look, you have a constellation. Do you see nuances or pockmarks? Ennui, inspiration? do you abject, accept? Again, first, Who are you?
by NICHOLAS GARCIA