how far, how long

18 Aug

I tried to make some art today.
It didn’t work.

I have days when this happens, it is frustrating and makes me want to throw my papers and pencils at the walls. If you’re not a creative person you might not know the feeling: so, imagine the best, most amazing idea you’ve ever had. It will change the world, it will cure diseases, etc. But as soon as you try to tell someone else, all the words that come out of your mouth sound like birdsong and are utterly incomprehensible.
Hopefully that doesn’t happen to anyone, it would drive me crazier than the current creation-block.

Anyway, I decided to try to paint and it didn’t really work out all that well. I am a lot better at drawing than I am at painting, but for some reason the watercolors that I got in Paris love me and make the things I create with them look gorgeous even when they’re super messed-up.

I also wanted to write some poetry, and I scribbled down a few stanzas in my Yellow Book before realizing that they all shared a single thread:
The Poet.
“Fuck,” I thought.

I try nowadays to keep people from sticking too deeply in my thoughts, after what I went through with Wil, and I’m not very good at keeping them out but I try. I tried very hard with The Poet. I recognised the potential and tried to keep my conciousness guarded.
That was a joke and I didn’t catch it until I realized on my 8-hour transAtlantic Flight From Hell that he’d burrowed into some ventricle of my soul/heart and camped out there from the moment he opened his mouth and the words “Hi, nice to meet you,” poured forth.

The fact that I clung to that like a safety blanket is a little frightening.

But the thing that gave it sticking power was that night in the auditorium, my legs beginning to turn to jelly in anticipation of my act: he carefully uttered two words, the same two words twice in different poems- “peach light”- and that sank a steel pick into my spine and ran obsidian fingernails down my ribs, creating sparks I’d thought could never reappear.
Five minutes later I found myself singing for him and who knows how many other people, and my mind meanwhile chewed over and digested the things he’d said before settling on keeping that spike embedded in my bones and relishing those unheimlich-feeling sparks.

Do you know what that means?

Will write later.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: