I do wake in the morning with all good intentions.
Today I will do my yoga. I will go for a walk. I will do more packing. Then I hear the clicking of the coffee pot and when I go to investigate I am so pleased that there is at least one more cup that I can squeeze out of it. The cup of coffee by the computer tells me its still morning and I have all day to complete everything I have not gotten to for weeks.
I get my sketchbook out, well if truth be told there is not getting out, my sketchbooks are all over the place! I can’t believe how many I have. 99% finished to the very last page.
I open the book and draw what I am feeling. At times when I do this it helps me to see where I am at and how I can physically help myself through this. This morning it was my body standing at a 60 degree angle with ropes wrapped around the chest. then extensions leading to message blocks all around. In these blocks I write what emotions are possessing me like a spirit from another world.
The idea that I obsess has come to me more often then I care to count. Is the mind of an artist a stable one? Probably not for if it was we would be doing something else that rewarded us with money and security. There are benefits though. The fact that I can look at these walls full of paintings is a real benefit! To see something of a solid matter that has come from pure thought and emotion still impresses me.
The idea that in the future I might even create something that is of full round acceptable beauty is a post-it on my mind. Would I even be interested in doing this? Truthfully, imagining myself painting flowers or scenes of a foggy meadow kind of creeps me out. There would have to be a partial animal scull somewhere in it or steps created by ribs leading to the distant skies. You see, it’s not a sunny day without a single grey cloud. Maybe I’m stuck or the artist in me is enjoying all the feelings of sorrow. Or maybe I’m screaming for help the only way I know how to.
There are many that know what I feel and are supportive. I don’t mean to insinuate that I am so lonesome creature in the bush living off the sap that I lick off the trees and make soup from mushrooms and grass that I pick. But, the mind does go there. Why does it go there? Perhaps it needs the emptiness and vastness of the forest to give refuge to these feeling. Letting them fly and be caught by a swirling wind that cradles them to great heights. Free them for they are too great and massive to live in our hearts. They possess such energy that they will eventually dry the heart out and it will parish. Disintegrate to ash with the slightest of pressure.
This image stops me, and I feel stillness. I try to breath with thought. My eyes feel frozen to those words.