Inspiration finds you in so many different ways. I think of simple stupid things like sunshine after two months of rain. A shiny bike. Friends from out of town that you haven't seen in a while. The smell of someone that you love. There are only a few things in this world that truly inspire me. They call me to action. They are painful, dreadful things. Hearing "Metal Heart" by Cat Power destroys me -- it's a personal accusation. I swear that woman knows me.

American Psycho touches too many nerves. That portrait of a person so disaffected is troubling to me. I'm reading Less Than Zero (another Ellis book) right now and it's the same. I read Will Self's Great Apes recently and it screwed with my perception. People are all freakish chimps to me. Keep your fucking hairy, feces-spattered hands off me.
I saw a Barnett Newman work at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art that blew me away. Fountain by Marcel Duchamp always leaves me smiling. The Unbearable Lightness of Being reminds me of American Psycho. Maybe we're all kidding ourselves -- maybe we don't feel anything.

But then I hear this music. These carefully lobbed grenades, made for me. I think about the pain or happiness or love or loss or depression or elation or hatred that infused the creators of these well-crafted spears and I know that it's not true. These things are real. At least for others. If I find myself disaffected or lost, I can think that perhaps I myself am sometimes lost, but those who write these things are not. They are mired in emotions to their detriment. That's all I have to think about. These things inspire me to action. They inspire me to feel.