In moments of clarity I sing. In moments of despair I moan. In this moment I spy the green seeping from your eyes.
We step in the shallow pool where leaves gather in cooler days. The reds, yellows, and oranges ripen with the setting sun. Browns crunch under our shoes. Your fingers wrap around my wrist, clenching my pulse to see if I respond. I don’t. But I do.
I reach for the new growth you promised me years ago. I see it now. The tender green shoots sprout from your heart.
My first time painting in a long while. It felt really good. Soul refreshing. I had to pack up my paints as the sun was setting and the mosquitoes were biting. Tomorrow perhaps. I won’t wait two years again. Praying for rain here in Massachusetts.
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.
The winding down of summer puts me in a heavy philosophical mood. —Robert Fulghum
One person cannot save the world, much less lift their hands to praise the day’s cycle. The shape of time has dipped into an abyss. I drown in heavy-laden words while the complaints of many clog my veins.
At the moment, my heart isn’t enamored by art or creating worlds with color paper. I overwhelm myself with listening and feeling what doesn’t belong to me. One cannot sleep when so much threatens the thoughts. So, like the sun, I give way to the bleak. Dip my brush in ink. Splash my body invisible and spread darkness.