The Curves

I looked at my pho­tographs today, some of them. They streamed across my tv, I don’t remem­ber how. I remem­bered that before we looked at paper prints and i like those but these are good too, imme­di­ate.
I liked my pho­tos. That felt good; happy was the emo­tion. I want you to like my pho­tographs and to feel some­thing when you see my them. Feel any­thing. Say­ing that I want you to like my art does not come so nat­u­rally as say­ing that I like my art, which also does not come nat­u­rally. It is a pro­gres­sion of unwind­ing false-ness. I do truly love the impulse in me to cre­ate. Say­ing any­thing else is ego. For instance, min­i­miz­ing that love is ego, because then I am ask­ing you to jump in and love it and make me be ok in some way. I don’t need that. Your lov­ing it or not is not my busi­ness even though I want you to. Hop­ing you like my work and my art is me want­ing you to know me. Under­neath the mind of me, the sci­ence of me, are the curves that give the edges mean­ing. The curves are my feel­ings. I am try­ing to let you know about those curves and edges, my feel­ings. I am let­ting me know about them.