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The number of times you’ve succeeded without failing has no correlation with how worthy you are as a creative.

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You are art yourself, you could be the one to paint colors never seen before into other people’s minds.

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Last night at Tanglewood was terrific. Listening to the Boston Symphony play Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition and being near my new friends on our picnic blankets, I experienced what seemed like a moment of pure happiness and tried to sear it into my memory, for days in the future when I’m feeling down.

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It’s funny, though: there’s such a difference between being with all men, as I was during the day, and being with women this evening. Men – most straight men, anyway – are such clods. Women, on the other hand, have spunk; they know how to laugh and relate.

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Our lives are struggles, to bear witness, to speak out, to stand for something which we believe is worth standing for.

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The music was strange and hypnotic, and as I listened, I looked around at Conrad, Anne, Preston, Lucille, Dan, Jane, Sandy Walker and his ever-present dog, Michael, Ellen and Elaine, and I thought: These people are all so talented and beautiful, I could be in love with all of them.

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we are so in tune with the world and the world sings back to us
it sings to us through our pencils, our paintbrushes, our instruments, our film
it write us notes and it colors our canvases