After an embarrassing amount of time, I had a handful and paid and headed for the kitchen table at home. This decision, what was it? What was I looking for? I wrote. And, the writing was not difficult, nor did it last long, nor did it fill the page. I returned the following day and wrote more in a different color and the next day I wrote on the same page in a new color. Within this time of writing in layers, several days and pages and weeks passed. Then, one day, I was done. Just done. The next Monday to follow this day, I resigned from my job. I knew where I wanted to be, and what I wanted to do. I did find a job, and I did move a long distance -- to a city near the city where I wanted to be. The colors continued to fill pages of writing text on text. All these pages eventually became my art and I had some printed into posters and framed the ones that fit especially well into where I was. Within two years of settling, my then current job ended against my will. Unemployment stepped across the threshold. Never did the writing stop and a new layer turned the pages into poetry. Poems played on lines and into colors. From the moment of recognition, no matter how life happened, creativity stood as solace and guide. The span of no job phenomenally was the bridge to exactly where I wanted to be three years before, exactly. Many years ago I stepped into an art store in a city far away and dreamed my life whole. And now, that perfect job dreamt has turned cranky, noisy and un-fun. I recognize the taste of it and know "here I go, again." I look forward to "this," as if hanging onto every word.
Sunday, February 9, 2014
WordLayers
Fourteen years ago I was in the middle of a life changing decision; a conundrum of unmovable edge. I had to step back to step forward which moved me into an unknown place: an art store where I had never been, as me. I stepped inside and moved to the sketchbooks. After opening and closing and sensing, I found a large black one with wire binding. The paper was heavy and empty--like my heart. How to fill these pages? I followed several creative aisles over to the only medium that made sense. The colored markers. Hundreds of pens and hundreds of colors. I began to touch, to test and to turn a kiosk filled with innumerable possibilities.
After an embarrassing amount of time, I had a handful and paid and headed for the kitchen table at home. This decision, what was it? What was I looking for? I wrote. And, the writing was not difficult, nor did it last long, nor did it fill the page. I returned the following day and wrote more in a different color and the next day I wrote on the same page in a new color. Within this time of writing in layers, several days and pages and weeks passed. Then, one day, I was done. Just done. The next Monday to follow this day, I resigned from my job. I knew where I wanted to be, and what I wanted to do. I did find a job, and I did move a long distance -- to a city near the city where I wanted to be. The colors continued to fill pages of writing text on text. All these pages eventually became my art and I had some printed into posters and framed the ones that fit especially well into where I was. Within two years of settling, my then current job ended against my will. Unemployment stepped across the threshold. Never did the writing stop and a new layer turned the pages into poetry. Poems played on lines and into colors. From the moment of recognition, no matter how life happened, creativity stood as solace and guide. The span of no job phenomenally was the bridge to exactly where I wanted to be three years before, exactly. Many years ago I stepped into an art store in a city far away and dreamed my life whole. And now, that perfect job dreamt has turned cranky, noisy and un-fun. I recognize the taste of it and know "here I go, again." I look forward to "this," as if hanging onto every word.
After an embarrassing amount of time, I had a handful and paid and headed for the kitchen table at home. This decision, what was it? What was I looking for? I wrote. And, the writing was not difficult, nor did it last long, nor did it fill the page. I returned the following day and wrote more in a different color and the next day I wrote on the same page in a new color. Within this time of writing in layers, several days and pages and weeks passed. Then, one day, I was done. Just done. The next Monday to follow this day, I resigned from my job. I knew where I wanted to be, and what I wanted to do. I did find a job, and I did move a long distance -- to a city near the city where I wanted to be. The colors continued to fill pages of writing text on text. All these pages eventually became my art and I had some printed into posters and framed the ones that fit especially well into where I was. Within two years of settling, my then current job ended against my will. Unemployment stepped across the threshold. Never did the writing stop and a new layer turned the pages into poetry. Poems played on lines and into colors. From the moment of recognition, no matter how life happened, creativity stood as solace and guide. The span of no job phenomenally was the bridge to exactly where I wanted to be three years before, exactly. Many years ago I stepped into an art store in a city far away and dreamed my life whole. And now, that perfect job dreamt has turned cranky, noisy and un-fun. I recognize the taste of it and know "here I go, again." I look forward to "this," as if hanging onto every word.
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