I’ve Got To Get You Into My Life

When I was fifteen, I went to an “alternative” camp. There I met an older camper named Fred. He had long hair, a wash of freckles,  and a lot of swag. I’m quite sure he didn’t know I was alive (was I alive?), but I worshipped him from afar. One day, somehow, we got to talking outside the theater barn. It was there he told  me that he believed authentic feeling was all that mattered.  I disagreed. I believed that execution was all. We all have feelings, what separates artists and writers is their ability to execute a work of art.  He chided me for this. He was all for undiluted feeling. Did I still want to fuck him? Yes, of course. But it was a demarcation for me of people who believed in feeling over form.

Feeling or form? Where do you live?