Art has a way of confusing me. My mind never relaxes as I struggle to make meaning. And to make matters worse, the formation of ideas triggers my perfection.
Most of my work on my blogs is far less about perfect poetry or admirable photographs or attracting followers, then it is about releasing unspoken and buried pain and loss. Of making meaning while never knowing why.
The glitter of diamonds is rarely found without first removing the heartache and wiping the tears. —me
I am struggling at the moment. Life has become one long movie cut that keeps getting axed. Nothing feels right. There is no long term goal forming and my energy to pursue an advanced degree is waning. I look at my blogs with a desire to simplify. The blogs are as messy as my life. And still I pursue collecting and creating and coagulating the runny substances that create sticky problems.
Looking at it from a distant, maybe my artist fingerprint mirrors the uneasiness of my stumbling in the dark. I am not a prepared scout on this journey. I am a scrap-carrying, scribbler-eating, thought-crunching gypsy who is more comfortable exploring than settling into a home.
I carry my home in my heart. Even a cracked shell has some ability to keep dreams from fraying into oblivion. I may still arrive at my destination. The long and winding version of finding myself.