Or ah ha!
I am, as I heard someone once say 'burning the midnight oil." Its a little past 1:30 and while most are sleep or up and mentally exhausted from the thought of what this upcoming week will bring, I am blissfully (coffee is partially to blame) awake. But not just 'awake' because my eyes are open. I, as in 'my soul,' am awake. Times like this are hard to come by, or at least for me-- burning the midnight oil AND being creatively productive-- they've been existing separately, like distant cousins that you only see at family reunions. I come from a small family, so I've only attended two reunions and those were, how shall I say this? A bore.
So, let's take advantage of this hour. Yes, this blog has been lacking just about everything I meant for it to be, but most notably: consistency. The achiever in me (and the Aries) really wants to believe that I will write the most humorous, inspirational prose on a daily basis, while still managing a hectic, creative life. Surely, I have proven that I should let that little dream fall by the waist side-- its just not going to happen. And at this point, I know it should never happen. Blogging is not my career-- its an accessory, an outlet. My moleskine journals usually catch my most random or organized thoughts, ideas, and quotes; by the way, Moleskine journals are absolutely perfect for writing. So as I pose this question to myself and you (what the h-e-double-hockey sticks is this blog about?), I'll answer it in an informal fashion.
I am a passionate, yet frustrated artist. I am a poet, who has been actively trying to write a book for the past 2 years, with 8 of those months being full of inactivity, a former model (I hate telling people that, and I'll explain later), writer--duh, comedian (in my own mind), lover (always), music fanatic, wannabe designer (oh--the ideas I have--sickening), soon-to-be massage therapist, a transplant of South Carolina (funny, because I still live there, but I say transplant because my heart & mind is elsewhere), and a beautiful soul. I could add more, but I'm letting my heart take control of this train.
Love and hurt are deeply parallel in my world, which can be equally fulfilling or detrimental to my creative flow. If I am in love and recognize that I have love-- poetry comes to me in bulk, with fancy packaging & pastel colors. Even when I am deeply hurt, the pain moves me to write deliriously, as if each word was being sent to the heavens-- a petition to be heard & freed from that which has betrayed me. In those states, my artistry is at its very best. I cherish those moments, often gripping to co-existing memories with such a strong hold that I am unaware of how it affecting my spirit-- unattended to and the sore loser who will always be compared to 'what was.'
But recently, I had an 'ah ha.' For the last 2 years, I thought my past body of work was the cause of the highest pinnacle of emotions, whether joyful or full of pain. In my mind, it was either: I need to be in love or out of love, in order to be a gifted artist. I hit a roadblock in rationalizing this in 2008 and earlier this year-- signaling the end of one intense love affair, and the beginning of 'something' that eventually turned into the worse relationship in the history of relationships-- yours included. Needless to say, I was prepared for a surge of inspiration, but low and behold, it (or they) never arrived. Why, you say?
I lost hope. And a person without hope is hopeless, so I became a hopeless soul. I found myself wandering around in bookstores, searching for 'inspirational' (and inspiration) books, stalking those who seemed to find instant gratification from rummaging through the "last FINAL sale" of $2 to $5 books that no one --or maybe just me, wanted. OR if it wasn't that, then it could have been the Godiva cheesecake--never the sandwich (who finds inspiration in a sandwich?), the caramel latte (a staple drink for writers), or coffee dates (made before the bookstore or at the bookstore). It didn't matter, I was seriously envious of anyone who seemed to be artistically-free and happy. Did I mention that I was not happy? Oh, I was one unhappy camper, wailing in my own year-round camp of misery. The activities included: writing crap poetry or not writing at all, browsing through blogs & being overloaded with images, which still produced nothing substantial when combined with my own efforts. Even if I did happen to create 'something,' my mind was quick to point out that the idea wasn't really mine, it was just a regurgitation of what my senses-- sensed.
Ah. ha.
Let's piece this confusing puzzle together, shall we (posed as a question, but really doesn't need an answer). Emotional rise + me= creative high - hope= a notebook full of nothing. Hope is a necessary ingredient to living a fulfilled life. Hope is the vehicle of choice when navigating through this journey. Note: I enjoy riding in a car that has the loudest speakers, painted black, and windows down (so the wind can blow through my hair). Hope isn't just about being strong, it is also about believing in your own convictions. I had to tell myself that it was truly acceptable to NOT want to write on this blog
Tomorrow or at some point during this week, I will post a list of elements or items that I find necessary for opening & satisfying my artistic voice. Till then, I'll bask in the fact that I wrote this long blog entry and count it as a "come back."
