As Ives the Insurer

Ghosts of the past

Rising up in nightly dreams,

Wailing, clawing, resurrecting

Remembrance of damning deeds.

The artist cannot conjure

away these ghouls; but then,

a good artist sees in suffering

a Beauty impossible to ignore.

A confounding comparison:

That the haunting retinal light

of the past brings a

shiver of recognition - stunningly,

a similar sensation to

the insatiable inspiration of

a summer storm.

An artist, then, is not just an articulate auror; or

an accomplished authority in

"classic" contrivations!

No, like Ives the Insurer,

Any average Joe averaging

The standard forty-a-week

Willing to withstand the

waning structure of

Individuality,

Is capable of creating

Art: an attempt to

articulate the indescribable Beauty

found in ghoulish gleam

or summer storm.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

"An Artist," says he.

They chuckle.  "But what job do you want?  You need to make money, dear."

Downcast, he reverts to whatever his father does for a living.

"Oh, how sweet!"  And another Artist dies - giving way to to the blue-or-white collared prison known as the work force.

Being an Artist isn't an occupation, dear one.  It's a way of recognizing life.  There is Beauty in everything; it just needs to be discovered and appreciated for what it Is.

Are you a debt collector?  A mortician?  A hole-digger?  An insurer?  A librarian?  A marketer?  There is Artist in you: you only need to wake it.

Please, dear reader, don't kill the Artists.  If we are worth anything as humanity, it is only because, at some point, many, many years ago, there was Art.
Look for Your Art.  Maybe, when you grow up, you will find it.