I'm reading Joe Campbell right now. He's sitting beside me here, on the kitchen counter, a volume called "Creative Mythology" with a cover by Chagall.
Oh. Chagall. I love you too.
My dear friend Erin once compared my writing to Chagall. It was, in truth, a criticism.... she was searching for something nice to say about an essay, where I was being obtuse rather than forthcoming (some wounds, some loves, some ideas are so hard to be truly forthcoming about, to present in details, detailed details.... the standing dripping wet in 7-11 evidence of how pathetic you were, how pathetic the person who is meant to be some angel, some paragon, was being... and so, you recede into vague waters... where it is easier to disguise your utter stupidity. Lack of boundaries. Discarded dignified sense of self).
Anyway. She reached into her back pocket and said, "it's like Chagall... images and fragments."
Insult though I knew it was, I took it as the *best compliment.*
But Joe Campbell. Man of 1000 hero masks. Who inspired "Star Wars" -- the person behind the person of "the force" and Luke and all that came with it -- is being *maddening* right now. He's not talking to me in straightforward terms and I'm pouting. Because I don't want to hear anymore about his analysis of "Tristan and Isolde" -- which has gone on for 200 pages....
I want him to tell me something relevant to *me*
That I can use... springboard off of as I go into what I would call the second part of *this novel*
Not unlike an inquiry I got the other day. A boy who'd watched one of my videos on Youtube and wrote to ask for some advice specific to him.
I wrote back.
Then wrote back again.
And then, drew the line.
Because all these dark forests that we must go through. That we must definitely, at least *try* to tenderly hold the hand of others as they go through one... to at least recognize the horror of the demons and monsters and unknown and agony and uncertainty as it holds for *them* -- rather than dismiss their dragons as mere illusions..... illusions though they *are*..... they are, always, so very very very impossibly real and fire-breathing to whomever is facing them... Yet, in the end... it is they, who must walk. Must put one foot before the other. Who must float in the darkness toward their own truth.
As I must.
We can pile on as much guidance as possible. Dress ourselves up in it. But in the end. We make the steps.
Nonetheless, I hope Mister Joe will do as he did for Lucas, for others... as he did in retrospect, it seems for Joyce.... and get to me.