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.
November collapsed like so many dusky sand castles abandoned by the idle hands whom shaped them. Promises of distant adventures coroded by the changing tides. Pillars soften in the salty grasp as the architecture returns to sludge. We built no home here. A temporary escape, as joyful as it is brief, in a beautiful day that too can not stay. With sandy fingers and red sun burnt faces we ply our simple task to loose a day, a month, in the coarse fabric of the sand. A playful gesture. Towered & fallen. Unnoticed & unmourned. Tonight my thoughts are with those grains of sand settling on the ocean floor. Who can measure where the tides may pull the pieces that we shed in the course of shaping useless fantasies before we are dead.
Checking in my New Years resolutions I’m feeling really good about the place I’m at. Feel very on target & happy with results. That being said there are always a few loose ends to wrap up as well as seeds to plant for the coming year.
My personal goals aka a recipe to flourish:
- Paint/draw/craft 12 fruits & flowers in 12 weeks
- Play more bass, write more songs
- Cook more meals with less meat, consume less alcohol/intoxicants, practice mindful consumption for 8 months
- Adjust morning rituals to darker season
- Publish book of poetry, throw a party to celebrate (November)
- Create dance/video collaboration in bloom (December)
- Meditate, journal, observation, contemplation, yoga, mindful body work, presence, gentle focus, careful attention, joyful curiosity
- Leave time for more reading, laughing, loving, hand holding, sharing, listening, dreaming
Community goals aka a offering for tomorrow:
- Next stage of development for SPC engaging with membership to build thriving community results by May
- Alt alt producing & mentoring learning cycle – a celebration of weirdos cummulate in January
- Join international mentorship program (December)
- Continue to support friends and cultivate strong bonds with women/non-binary folks
Professional goals aka ambition’s map:
- Spend time catching up on administrative details that have escaped (December)
- Build portfolio, documentation, and website (March)
- Develop alternate revenue streams (November)
- Continue to reach out and build bridges between creatives & businesses
- Keep saying no to offers that don’t make sense to leave room for the opportunities that excite me
October taught like a bow string drawing from the well that sprung in cool darkness of the soul rippling familiar resonance. Sweat trickles down the back of my neck warm in the dappled sunlight, as hand over fist works steadily to pull buckets of cool crisp crystal to my parched tongue that has cupped prayers silently for too long. Discovered while divining for a secret garden where my soul could bloom undisturbed. My eye focused on the horizon, rod in hand, aiming at the heart of unsung mysteries, finger strikes a chord, echo of caverns below humble footfalls, open to receiving each other in abundant grace. Glory in the morning as a purity that tastes fresh on salty lips slides down my throat in mutual gratitude of the refreshed. Harmonic symphony in an instant. Celebration of bounty surrounded by love notes from death.
September hung heavy on my shoulder. All long grey feathers & stench of rot in the earth. Too long to be comforting, too steady to be hostile. Pressing shoulder blades like tectonic plates, slow & steady, grinding along the surface. A dull ache behind my temple as my two eyes blinked through the darkness holding them hostage. I felt a sudden longing to be free of this earthly drudge & glide among the stars as bubbling laughter or careless whispers. No light & airy thing ruffled these feathers tonight. Instead, solemnly holding my limbs in suspended slumber, weighted by this uncomfortable pressure shifting just out of reach to my blind gape. Then, to my surprise, from the darkest depths there began to spring a crack. A clear red slit of fire. Blood red smile. Taunting me against the bleakness. It grew to a tall gash releasing flighty embers that burned into my retinas like stars. As the crack grew, burbling molten suffering as it went, I began to see that this was the door that I had been searching for all along.
August sits as the wick of a candle poised over the table edge and what remains of a heartily devoured meal. Casting warm golden shadows across the silent hall where laughter used to ring. A steady drip of wax mounting over the forgotten hours since we playfully crept up to bed careless bits of mirth strewn about the floor. Half a glass of wine, and whip cream that has fallen remain unperturbed by their suspended fate. No breath of fresh air to disturb this waxing morn, the soft grey light already collecting on the dust of the picture window. Four in the morning and the house echoes in stillness, but the little wick burns on into its final hour. My dreams are spent, slumber deadens the sense once ensnared so sweetly. Released into dreams better left unknown. No sign of hesitancy as the flame begins to flicker and start at the end of its rope. A black reminder in the morning light. Even in peaceful times, all good things must come to an end. Silence envelops us.
July had the texture of lightening before it strikes. A threat that promises to deliver destructive renewal. The currants firm against my skin taught around a fluttering breath. I am longing for a natural disaster or divine intervention. Nerves like live wires, cloying sticky hot clouds form around my mind as my eyes scan the horizon with lazer percision. Thunder clap looming in my throat as of yet silent. Still lazy in the heat I move slowly as tension rises. Restless & relentless; I am caught spinning lopsided while frictions momentum grinds down the whirligig propulsion as I begin to gravitate towards eternal stillness.
I am gathering my energy to strike out in exacting devotion.
Quiet destruction of idol gods feared by lazy minds. A creative out burst followed by a rich down pour of inntuituve truth seeking.
Electrified battle scars ready for healing.