Your spirit is glowing as you dance in the shadows of fame.
Dylan, after Newport, huddled crouching in a corner, while the party raged to a free jazz drumbeat. His hands were cold. Kundalini energy, he was freaking out. If you would touch him, you’d think he’d snap, hurt you. He had unleashed something that he did not know, He did not know what it was.
As an artist and musician, I want an audience. The trap being that I want attention without getting caught in the snares of prestige and greed. My self-worth is no longer contingent on the quality or popularity of my work.
I am preaching to people who do not like being used as a mirror, my self-portrait that I refuse to look directly into the eyes and smile. It seems that I would rather take of my spectacles so I might look like a Monet.