June 11, 2024

"The issue is: why write? Creative minds, sputtering about in what sounds good in the reasonless inspiration of it all. To whom does this conglomerate of theatre speak? Can it address anyone particular? Can any of it derive itself from the vulnerable heart's need to profess its own absurdity in front of the distant forms-or must we be left with impressive displays and stories neatly couched in the supply and demand of the theatre-going people. I pray for artists, now, Lord. How can any find individuality when conformity to expectation and evaluation of performance defines the career? Where is the place of self-splitting truth, Lord? Take me there, I pray. Release me from the limits of what presents themselves to me and guide me to that land of freedom. It will not come from my own control; I understand this now. That which is free cannot be created by man's will-only through yours may man's will find the Promised Land. Not because that is the way things should be but because there are webs of existence outside our compartments which attend to the peripheries of our existence's shape-that which is uncontrollable; that is your Domain. Where you live, Lord, is in the existent invisible forces carrying out your Divine Will. Can it be that you do not wish me to enact change of thought in other minds? Perhaps my guiding light is the quality of my contextual action, taking into account the dramatic story of my existence thus far. In this way, am I free to act without expectation of location, but marginally, in the incremental goodness which pours forth like a fountain.

What makes the fountain beautiful is the constant stream of water. If the pressure is too low, it will limply trace the outline of the stone, or simply not spout at all. If the pressure is too high, it may spend all its tank before waiting to refill, or, it may disrupt the peace of the receiving basin. Constant and decent pressure, Lord, is what the fountain requires."

Best,
Blake