Hours
What am I doing with all this nostalgia? This
reminiscence.. am I trying to draw a line in my history so that I can start
writing about it, to distance myself from it, to package it because I don't know
what else to do with it and everyone else is telling me to move forward? Am I
trying, somehow, to glean lessons -- or simply to frame my own narrative? How
shall that narrative be defined? Yes, it seems, given what I've just written
(can I blame the current culture?) that I'm crafting a novel. Isn't that what a
resume is? Here, I present the resume of my life, my curriculum vitae -- vitae
-- vital, vitality, life, my life's lessons.
They don't fit on a page.
I'm not actually working on my resume.
I'm reminiscing.
I am digging my heels
in the ground and trying to do things at my pace; in an attempt to honor the
past, and thus, the future. ...
I hate the experience of walking into the studio,
looking at an empty easel, and not knowing what to do, feeling helpless and
uninspired, despite my enthusiasm. It's kind of heartbreaking. Recently it's
been happening 3 or 4 times a day when I'm out here -- though I think it's
because I am also waiting for something to come interrupt me. It's always
something.
The greatest gift is
unobstructed time in solitude.
......................
The
word hours, if pronounced phonetically, sounds like "whores."
Posted: Tuesday - March 13, 2007 at 02:43 AM
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