Oh J…..
Every thing you say increases my love for you in exponential powers of three. I’ve been thinking about your letter for a couple of days now. I can only speak for myself, because you should do what you feel right about, and in the end you do what you do and whatever you do will be right. The constant in my mind these days as I put the 60 pound boxes of honey on the truck is the statement; Steve, the number of hours you work in life is a finite number.
I often get excited about learning a new skill, thinking it can’t hurt to know this, beekeeping for example, but in the end if my hearts not in it, it’s all I can manage to not be a surrly bitch most of the time. Nobody around me deserves this, really I don’t hurt others around as much as me that gets punished and I punish my self enough without having to hate my self for being bored with my work and having to stick it out. I know this might not apply to you. I had a shit load of stuff to say but I forgot.
In the end, I want you to be a fucking artist, BOOM, BOOM! What helps in my life is looking at what I have to do and say to my self how is this art; how can I make this art. Some days it works, some not. James Whistler uttered some statement about being a true artist was to engage in making your life art not just thinking about it but living it. Something I always strive for. An old professor used to show a slide of Buddhist self immolation and talk about the commitment it takes to be an artist, dramatic I know, but the more I think about it the more it rings for me. 
The novel Lolita by Nabakov, you know the one about the 30 y.o. or so writer who falls desperately in love with a fourteen year old, I know; judge if you will. Nabakov never spoke much about his writing Lo in particular. Many claim it as one the best novels of the 20th century. Anyway most conjecture about this book is that it portrays the metaphor of the relationship between the artist and their work. Hedonistically self-indulgent and impulsive, but such a love that one cannot help themselves within, Passion.
Believe me that shit will so fuck you up. Primarily because it is so fucking beautiful and when it subsides it throws you down so fucking hard its all you can do to look up. How many times have I told my self to just walk away, stop caring, just do the fucking job. I don’t have that capacity, its not who I am. I hope that the passion and beauty will return and it always does. The trick is I guess to handle it gently enough so it doesn’t slip away.
As usual I am afraid I must be carrying on like a madman, which I am. I hope I haven’t thrown to much at you or have sounded condescending. Just some of my thoughts.
I miss you dearly
Steve
Check out Lucian Freud he’s a bitch ass muthrfckr
