But only in their dreams can men be truly free

For MIND class tomorrow, we are going to take out a sheet of paper and have a writing assignment. I already know the prompt. It is: What is art?

I know I don't want to get technical: art is color, line, space, etc. I don't want to rattle off a list of the elements and principals of design.

I don't really want to get as broad as we were getting right at the beginning of the semester. Art is something that moves people to feel something and similar things, because while I think that's right I don't think it's as simple as that.

But I'm also not sure I want to go off on the same tangent that I already did there: art is my life and everything that makes it worthwhile. That was a good piece that I wrote but I think I've made that point. And art is certainly bigger than me.

I have been thinking a lot about the Dead Poet's Society lately. It started with the barbaric yawp, because that was the only way I could truly articulate to myself what this graduation thing feels like. But I was also thinking how James Fittz is cut from the same material that Dr. King is, the same material that Fil was sometimes -- teachers that felt like (to me) they were channeling Mr. Keeting. So, in that vein, one does not write poetry/paint pictures/think big things because it is cute. We do these things because we are members of the human race.

I like that. It's still too broad, but I think that is the direction I will start.