I watched my flamenco teacher perform yesterday and was filled with a strange kind of melancholy. I'm trying to figure out why. Perhaps it's the realization that whatever artistic profession you choose, who you yourself are always shines through the performance. There's no hiding, not even behind perfection. In fact, a perfect perfromance in itself tells us something of the nature of that performer. Am I a perfectionist? I really wouldn't know. But I have to figure that out first before even attempting to write perfectly. Or else my writing is in danger of losing its soul.