Not being objective

Again, I don't know what I'm going to blog about, will just go for it.  Last night, I could not sleep. I thought, my bones feel like lead, heavy and poisonous. I was not dead tired, rather, alive. I felt the weight of gravity. Life sitting on my chest.

I've been thinking of my post below, on Art, and how stupid it must sound — earnest and trying, but stupid still. I'm terrible at argument. It always seemed to me outrageous that debates would be scored on how well the persons argued, not on merit, who was right.

When I was a girl, my brother and father used to goad me into argument. They would say such things as "no woman was ever a great artist."  I would lose my argument (they said) by getting emotional. It was fun for them, watching me turn red and stomp away in tears (always tears).

In any case, if I really held to what I say, I would post a link to the blog post below on Facebook, so people would read the damn thing, and we could have a conversation. But I don't know. I'm afraid to.

Do you think that all art is subjective? A friend posts he is surprised when his work is turned down, because he likes it. I'm rather surprised when mine is picked up. I like mine too. A book catalog arrived in today's mail. Nicely done. One could definitely do worse than be in their stable. Do I think the samples they printed therein were heavenly, way out of reach? Not at all. They were okay.