With a propensity for lenghty internal monologues, I have come to realize that nothing is new but merely appropriated from something else. There are no new ideas. Although this fact alone may be the source of eternal despair for any creative person, it is both humbling and inspiring. All I can aim to be is a maker - a maker of things; a maker of visual casseroles.
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Category Archives: my artwork
How am I not myself?
I am not myself when I let this moment slip away without being here. Being now. Or now.
Where am I?
Elsewhere upstairs where reality fades and a new language divorces me from myself.
I am not myself when I am elsewhere.
Away from this moment. Away from my breath and my body and living in my mind. I have ceased to be me, when the me I thought I knew has taken a trip far far away. The me I become is a construct of mind, speaking in a language I don’t recognize. Do I want to live here where the dinner conversation is fractured at best?
A moment, waiting to be enjoyed and missed because of my troubled mind. The yearning for something that is not and the rejection of what is. I know little. What I do know is true. Truth reveals itself to me when I don’t need it. Fleeting moments of awareness and action spring forward and open me to the inspiration that is everywhere, all the time. I am not open to it when my distractions live with me.
Nature is mother. When I detach from me and mother becomes other, I am dislocated. When I breathe the sea air and hear its song, that is reality. When the me I thought I was turns on the radio, the me that is here goes upstairs into the unreality of intellect and politics. To live here means the death of now. They murder me and dampen the sound of quiet joy. The me I want sometimes forgets the words to a song that I once knew. But I’m learning it again. The People Doing Very Important Things All the Time tell me that the body serves the mind. But the children tell me that it’s the other way around.
I am you and you are me. I can only know me through you. You and I make three.
We are not alone when we are here. I can only be me when I surrender to this moment that we’ve shared. At times painful, but always fair.
When everything has a home, I am home. When I am aware of this, the moment is gone, waiting to be re-discovered. My limited grasp of perfection slips under my feet like a shadow. Acceptance of me allows myself to simply be.
When we are taught to question what is being dictated, to find out own voice in the matter, then when it’s all said and done, who’s agenda are we REALLY following?
Metamutation: an awareness of a change in state, while it is happening.
There are several different uses of the word ‘meta’ in the English language. One of its uses, according to Wikipedia is as follows:
In epistemology, the prefix meta- is used to mean about (its own category). For example, metadata are data about data (who has produced them, when, what format the data are in and so on). Similarly, metamemory in psychology means an individual’s knowledge about whether or not they would remember something if they concentrated on recalling it. Furthermore, metaemotion in psychology means an individual’s emotion about his/her own basic emotion, “or somebody else’s basic emotion.
The Eastside Culture Crawl – an event where local artists open their studios to the public. This annual affair took over my humble studio walls for one weekend in Late Autumn; shoes squeaking in and out, eyeballs flying around, umbrellas splashing November rain, with me, trying to take it all in.
The weather decided to be extra nasty, perhaps to weed out the faint of heart and pull forth the more dedicated art lovers out there.
Paper, canvas and more paper in frames! I managed to sell a few drawings and cards. Lots of scribbles in my guestbook and new cards to add to my growing collection of acquaintances, artists and names on paper.
It seems that my target audience is male computer nerds and young couples who either enjoy penguins, strangely drawn people or video games.
For me, the most fulfilling part about the crawl was hearing people laugh at my drawings. It would bring a smile to my face when, despite the terrible weather, people would look at my drawings (complete with soaking bodies and squishy shoes) and laugh at the printed dialogue between my silly characters.