Malcolm Chambers

Old poem. Old note. Winnie made me remember we are gods playing a game, figuring out abstractions. Childlike awe; there were lightning snakes on the lake’s surface, war paintings in the sky at sunset. Now that we’re grown, I guess it’s ourselves we have to figure out. 54; ‘’ […] The honing of my craft is not something I do on purpose. The product of creativity is not attention, it’s expression. Mastery is not something I deserve, it’s something I develop. I write them down as mantras because Instagram has me forgetting too often that art is its own reward. I’m no content creator. I offer no value to you. I do my own shit because it heals me. I write because there are some things that I have to get out of my head and my therapist is composed of 26 letters. I can’t afford to do it any other way. And, in a sense, there is no other way it could be done.’’