Mediocrity. It is a hard word to say. It is especially difficult
when you apply it to your life, and the style of meaning that has led
you through your long and winding existence... Then, like blood spurting
out of a badly ripped hole - torn into your tender flesh by a
splintered tree limb - one you just so happened to stumble into! Then,
thats when you suddenly see the frailty of it all! Such a small thing
can literally bring you to a stand-still, and you see it - Mediocrity. If you got mauled by a Grizzly, or run over by a bulldozer, and survived - folk would say - "Wow! That was something - you must led a special kind of existence to survive that! ("…Oh, what a lucky man he was...") But me, I get bent out of shape when I get splintered by a tree limb!"
People are so much more alike than they realize. Some live for their god of worship, others - capitalism. Some just want to raise children, some want to build buildings, or led people on their quest to accomplish - accomplish anything - just some meaningful of purpose to them, that fires up their passion!
Being an artist is so much like being a person of faith. You
believe in some magical mystery manifestation, and creating it from your
intellect of experience will be the primary reason for every decision
you make - or have others make for you - or with you. It still really comes down to that one specific aspect of your nature - that forces you onward - if not towards an exact literal perfection, at least towards one that meets a specific level of substantiation - you feel is worthy of you effort, your name, and your reputation...
Every Tradesman holds a deep pride in the product that comes into your hands - either because you paid, or bartered with them, to recreate their specialty for you, and, maybe -
it is the best work of its kind they have ever completed, or, maybe
their best work is now far behind them, and you both come to an
agreement based on reputation, and ones idea of the value of their
Many artisans work a lifetime and are never recognized for their work. Then they die in some tragic or heroic way...
Then, a public interest develops in the nature of the work that
consumed the artist throughout their lives. They never see the fruits of
their labor - and someone else does. More likely, you will die, and
someone comes in to but the fixtures, furniture, and all the valuable or
not-so-valuable kick-knacks you collected through a lifetime of
defining yourself by the processions you collected to surround yourself
with. In your home - has become the environment - adorned with those special gem-of-finds that fit in with your personality, memorabilia that paints a picture of a person's soul. So often, that will be lost -
just like the art, or stolen by collectors of shiny objects five
fingers can sort away into some small well of a place. But you - you are gone. What was it all for? Who will find your spiritual muse, and artifacts, before they run asunder - or are splintered by an arbitrary tree limb?