Dreaming of a beautiful living thing

Last night I dreamt of a bright white light coming from within a huge web like dome of interlocked shadows. The edges of the shadows were soft and vaguely human shaped. The light was harsh on the black dance floor. The network breathed together as one beautiful living thing. From deep within the mass a poet’s voice emerged crystal clear. As their voice grew nearer the light shifted from below the knot to above the speaker as the limbs disassembled in the darkness.

I am in a rehearsal hall addressing the ensemble of sweaty artists emerging from the darkness. I am giving notes to the team to spend extra time working with their bodies between rehearsals to build stamina to hold the sculpture, “This will be different for each of your bodies, look inside yourself and see how you need to make adjustments to the sequence to suit your body”. As the group disperses I am already pouring over my notes making adjustments to the calendar, and drafting emails to the design team with the adjustments from today. There is a level of calm in my brain that is so rare in my waking life.

The thought disrupts the dream state. I wake up going over the schedule again, and determining the web image should be moved to the end from the beginning.

Bookends.

Thanks Mr. Rose.

work in progress

I’ve been having a hard time sitting down to write lately. Not because I lack time, but because I lack empathy for my own process therefore how could I hope to have empathy for anyone else’s. There are a lot of things I could say about depression and creativity and in fact I already have said some here, but I don’t have the strength to go there right now. I am writing to here now to give the smallest of updates and the smallest of motivation to myself to keep going, to keep writing. Because in my experience writing helps put a frame around my experience to be able to look at it from that place in the mind that does not experience pain of living, the essence of being if you will. I promised you two books of poetry exactly a year ago, and truth be told I’m scared to release them. These poems were written in a very dark period of my life, and at the time they gave me a reason to keep on going, to keep on writing, but reading them now is painful. Painful that I hurt so much, and painful that I would wish to share that sort of hurt on the world that is suffering so much already. It’s a hard thing for me to reconcile with myself in my current black disposition. I have made a promise to finish them by the end of this year regardless because people have directly asked me to, people I respect, and people that have paid me money in order that I might keep going, keep writing. If it weren’t for these people that have invested their good faith in me I would probably give up on the project entirely. Which is depressing in itself. There is this idea that the only kind of pure art is art for art’s sake that the artist creates in this vacuum regardless of who will appreciate it, but I also believe that the creative experience is not complete without someone to receive the expression of the soul. It’s like trying to have a conversation while no one is listening. Between these two beliefs I feel a little lost about how to feel about the release of this body of work. It is coming though regardless if only so I can practice having empathy for the parts of myself and my work I do not like.

Loosing faith

I feel it in my body. My limbs are heavy. My fingers feel thick & bloated like strange cocktail wieners attached to the end of my wrist stumps. My eyes ache, and my mouth tastes like ash. I have a hard time remembering what was just said to me. I feel like a waste of space. Same thoughts as before. I’m tired of hearing them. I can objectively see that I am doing well, my life is reasonably comfortable, I am reasonably skilled & kind, I am supported & loved, and my challenges are manageable. Yet my mind roars a deafening cry of apathy. It’s harder to silence when I know it is unfounded. Maybe I will always feel like this. Maybe I don’t deserve the things I have if I can’t appreciate them. Maybe the only way to get any peace. I can reason with myself that isn’t the answer. I can say the things to myself I would say to a friend. I can put myself to bed & make myself tea knowing things will keep going on. Maybe things will get worse, maybe I am a waste of space, but certainly no more so then anybody else. I can only make good of what I have here. How selfish is it to allow my mind to fall into such disrepair over nothing. Why does my body ache when I try to sleep? And disassociate when I try to focus? And smile when I feel afraid? I feel so embarrassed warning my friends. I need to tell you this because I know you would want to know if something were to happen, I have no plans, but someone needs to know, and I can see my weight transfer from my mind to yours, but I am no lighter for it, and again I am afraid. What is the point? Why am I here? I am asking a god that I don’t think can hear me for an answer that I am afraid to hear. No wonder it isn’t going well. Why do I make things so hard for myself? Or is it out of my hands generations of trauma leading up to this moment where I try to make an excuse for my own lousy outlook on life. Turning off the news helps. Playing music helps. Sleeping helps. Eating green food helps. Praying to no one in particular helps. Talking with others helps. Petting my cat helps. Drinking tea helps. Writing this down helps. 

I don’t know if help will ever really make a difference, but that’s the best I’ve got.

Depression & Creativity

Most of my writing has sprung from the fertile black soil of depression, but my creativity does not bloom in the darkness of the soul. Longer nights & greyer days. I struggle to keep pace in the changing seasons. I long for solitude, silence, and long autumn walks. Instead it is a ghastly busy season filled with errands of the daily grind I would rather leave undone. 

Would these bleak hours feel more hospitable if I were master over my own time to whittle away the dwindling days in my cabin amongst the falling leaves? Or am I cursed to count these mortal hours listlessly in the waning of the year as the darkest hour of the soul?

I am tired. Barely energy to get through the day. I crave rest. A peace of mind I have not known in many a moon.

Medicating to stay a float I find that I’m faced with the rot that has accumulated in the corners of my mind. No longer concealed by the reeling of my thoughts. Regulated interactions make me question. It’s a long road to better off than the poor old soul in the casket. Don’t we all crave the sweet release of death? And yet here we are busy with the business of living, but to what end?

My depression does not stoke the fires of my creativity rather it sucks me dry, but it’s such an old friend I would be lost with out it. Am I depressed because I ask too much of life? Or is life too much for me because I am depressed? I wish my brain would get on with the business of living already. Everything around me is dying & it is so awfully dull.

5x where my heart is

Another list of things that have touched my heart like a spark plug to the thunder bolt.

1. Maurice Sendak final interview and where the title of this list comes from
2. Werner Herzog on Creativity, Self-Reliance, and How to Make a Living Doing What You Love via Brain Pickings
3. Stephen Colbert telling the story of how he met his wife via the wonderful Paige Lansky
4. The Machine by Joey Comeau
5. Glitter by respectfulchild