from an e-mail, Jan. 12, 2012:
Yesterday, I had one of those moments of epiphany when I remembered who I am. Under all the layers of neurosis, self-pity and fatigue, I am still alive. I am Spirit. I am wind. I am flame. My life is burning whisky, not tepid water. I can't change the choices I made in the past, but I still have choices now. My mission is to help myself and other people feel authentically, and find wholeness through the experience. That's the sacred purpose of ancient Greek theatre, and it is at the heart of all art forms. We are a family of artists, but we were afraid to live that. My grandfather did, and he was rehabilitated in concentration camp, and later died of malnutrition. The arts are dangerous. Better to make money scrubbing floors and doing whatever is necessary to survive, and criticizing others for not living out their dreams.
Every time my mother starts to paint, she angrily repeats her mantra: NOTHING WILL COME OF THIS. She is doing some wild stuff now. I hope she stays with it.
Today, I am struggling. Tomorrow, I might jump into another time line or transcend to another dimension.