Time and Light Switches

Oh how the poet longs to be set loose. Alas the painter is what remains.   Living in a new place; that’s not really new, its old but new to me, an old kind of new and new kind of old. Its a strange occurrence. To live in the country I was born in. I knew this would happen, would happen in this way and arise these emotions. Hasn’t ceased the tide from coming to keep me.  Truly my creativity has come to keep me these days, and it’s not such a poor thing. I’d rather say its quite handy when one makes a life from creativity. However it does fail to provide a certain safety and comfort. It’s only comfortable because it is familiar and little else. But its the path I’ve chosen, and as my mother has said I am stubborn.  When I think about it, I don’t quite like the circumstances I’ve placed myself in. But when I simply live, it is quite agreeable. Go figure for how that all sits in peace in my mind. For it doesn’t. I am the sea where Atlantic meets Pacific and the line is o...

Editing had once again become a dance I so enjoy to be a participant in. It was a bit rocky getting started but now that I’ve found the rhythm I’m having so much fun.   In the beginning self doubt came for a visit. It was unwelcome but I gave it space to teach me what it might. Turns out, ‘time doth make the heart grow fonder’ is not always true, sometimes it simply makes it dull and one must choose to become sharply in love once again. So it took my years of perseverance and learned self discipline to pick the pen up the second day. But pick the pen up I did and I had the most fun awash in the land of words and imaginings.  I’ve officially lost count of how many times I’ve fallen in love with my book and its story. It seems that every time I come back after a break no matter the distances I rediscover my love for the story. Which could come from two places that I can think of, either I’ve got a healthy view of my own art and can love it flaws and all, or it just may be a ...

I have not known peace while in amongst my craft for many years. You could say, since I was a child. Today, the 15th of May in the year of 2024, that changed. Finally . It was not a piece of mastery or great skill, it is not even the most clever of all my works, but it made peace known to me. So it is of great value.   I had missed my paintbrush like no other, like nothing before it. The way it moved, carried colour in an oh so specific way, there’s not much else like it. And I had missed it dearly. Much like I imagine I would miss my hand were it parted from me, or my lung.  It is possible I was created to paint. Not because I would count myself a master of the art, I wouldn’t, but because of the affection I carry for its beauty. For the simple rhythm of it. Its intricacies and simplicity’s all counted the same to me, it is a love I carry for painting. Beyond that I cannot explain it, for English fails me so in this matter. I love painting the way I love the wind, and the...

  Well here I am with books unpacked, but not all of them just a fraction. I never want more to do something then when something else stops me from being able to. I’ve wanted to paint for over a month because all my things were packed. I’ve wanted to truly write for weeks, but I’ve no desk. And its all just excuses because I’ve no idea what will come out of myself once I give it space.   And isn’t that the crux of being an artist, one who creates, being unable to separate creating from your own humanness, and don’t we hate it till we don’t. Hate the evidence of our own human experience when really thats the point of the whole thing. The most startling, beautiful, and profound art always has traces of their creator.  It all gets better with time, if you’re willing to till the soil. Rotting away doesn’t solve much, but similarly patience is key. It’s all about the tension points, and being willing to find the balance in-between them.  Now that I can see my books...

I’m in a house,   the one I’ll inhabit for a year.  I have a bed to build, and a desk to procure.  Such is moving,  exhilarating and exhausting.  I’d like to return, to normal. But adventure is here, and it doesn’t feel familiar.  Because it’s not bad, just not my friend.  Can’t wait to write, to paint.  I like the peace, but hate the pieces.  My life in boxes, sick of this story.  Won’t someone hold me, while I pull together, The tatters of my self, and try a hand at joy.  Can’t I find a meadow, I miss the trees.  My life is good, full of love.  The grief came with me, couldn’t leave it.  So this house is good, but I miss the trees.