"Jack Kerouac once said, "Your art is the Holy Ghost blowing through your soul."Author: James Lee Burke

I've been thinking about James Lee Burke. Listening to his books on tape read by Will Patton. My dad gave me one for the road trip back to Mexico over a month ago. Whether it's the bayous of Lousiana or the border wars the events of the world hover over our heads these days; some kind of storms brewing . I am grateful for JLB's perspective of the telling of history, and the undercurrents of the time. I love his way of describing people, feelings and the best and worst that are our characters. We agree, my dad and I, that JLB writes like a photographer SEEs.

I found this essay Burke wrote and wanted to share it with you. Check it out for a little persceptive on why we do what we do. WRITERS ON WRITING BY James LEE BURKE.

"A real writer is driven both by obsession and a secret vanity, namely that he has a perfect vision of the truth, in the same way that the camera lens can close perfectly on a piece of the external world. "

"Jack Kerouac once said, "Your art is the Holy Ghost blowing through your soul." He also said that there was no such thing as failure in art, not when you genuinely invest yourself in it. What a critic might call failure is just part of larger work that is ongoing.

The material for the stories is everywhere. The whole human family becomes your cast of characters. You can give voice to those who have none and expose those who would turn the earth into a sludge pit. As an artist you have automatic membership in a group that is loathed, feared and denigrated by every dictator and demagogue in the world.

visit VIVA LA VIDA Blog

Please visit my new blog:VIVA LA VIDA

Sweet Baby Jesus.

A holy odyssey on horseback. Men from as far away as Georgia come to ride horses with the men of their communities; groups of 3,15,45,450, gather at the base of the mountain. Mass begins at dark. Men lay their cowboy hats on the ground, knell and pray before first light. There is the smell of copal burning, and the lone voice of one woman rises and soars supported by the bass of men preying. A Dog lies in the open doors to the church in this cold morning. Christmas decorations flutter in the breeze slightly torn but still shimmering. People are making coffee. Shadows move. We leave before dawn breaks to travel up the mountain and greet Cristo Rey emerging into pink light of the sky.

There will be over 3,000 riders by the end of Feast of Three Kings. 3,000 men have ridden, will dismount, walk slowly to the top of the stairway where the embodiment of the King of Kings,a babe lies with open arms. Thousands of kisses will ensue. In humbleness, eyes will flutter for a moment of rapture and grace. It is the gentleness of grandfathers, fathers and sons and grandmothers and daughters, mothers who will kiss upon the head, the brow, the cheek, the open hand, in hope and salvation, forgiveness, and love. I watch humanity knell and pray under the hot winter sun. Dust rises. The holy sacrament is given. Heads bow in prayer in whispers, in the shouts, VIVA CRISTO REY! In the heart center of this mythic land, a candle burns in the wind.
Peace reigns in the beauty of the faith of the people.