Do your work like art. What's the difference? You do your art like art. You put yourself into it. You loose yourself in it. Time passes unnoticed. You get your satisfaction. What is so different about your work? Hang Sheetrock with intent and passion. Or sculpt a face in a block of wood. Or put on a bead of solder, on a flame, in a contorted position, and feel the flux burn your arms as it splatters, or wrench your guts out at the mercy of a canvas. Or scream in frustration at the lumber that won't submit to your intentions, or die a little in the image of god busting out of a pixel on your screen. Or bleed when you pull out the splinter, alone, like a thousand splinters pulled from your bony fingers, or cut off your ear, and scream in a starry starry night. what's the difference. Except your mind and the things you tell it. And the categories, and the allowances you give to one endeavor over another. And the things you say to yourself. Let this breath be art, and the dish I will wash later, and the blast of intuition, and the moment of genius, and the times when you think you are as big a fool as ever lived, and the traffic jamb, and the guy on the corner with the bad sign and the nice shoes, and the last step at the top floor of the building where you sleep every night, and dream, and your mind does what it does, which is create, and you think your life is a drag, and you do not know what art is.