the soul has so many and no shapes. i do the same thing every day.

i was thinking about the soul in art. i was thinking about the need to breathe. it's the same all the time. you simply need to do it or expire. i think the soul left out expires, or maybe wanders. 
would that the soul would join with others, or move into a more comfortable shell from which to express what would otherwise expire.
i think of embarrassments in art, of being exposed yet unseen. think of when i was desperate for money and couldn't sell art to pay rent and i begged to sell some art envelopes to a friend who could support a colony of artists from his art and i asked if i could sell his envelopes and he gave me money and that was the last contact and i thought just now why didn't i just beg for money. once long ago when we were both incipient (which perhaps i still am) he asked me to critique his work. i said it feels like an invitation to a room that is carefully emptied, that gives nothing, not even the comfort of dust in the corners or floating in the light. in fact a lightless vacuumed room. i don't recall the precise phrase. it changes over time, over memory, layering. i looked again at him today, and all the forms that engage are there, but the feeling is empty. and maybe that is a kind of comfort that sells. but i felt and still feel left out. wandering. it may not result, this feeling may just wander, this feeling that seems out of place, displaced, this formless wandering. the wander. if it was a place, it would alight like a room of feeling left out of other created places, the feeling would be the place of wanderers wandering. 
you see you don't know where you might wander when you start wondering. i don't feel that once friend wondering about me. but i wander about him.