Sleep

When sleep presses upon my eyes, I battle. It is for stubborn independence's sake--one part of me against another--that I fight for my mind's control over body. In the morning, my body wins But nighttime is thoughts' playground, and thought will not be cheated its game.

Words

How many words are there in a language? Untapped recorces lay at my fingers even now, if I would attempt to express them. And yet why does it take more than the few to echo the songs of my heart, now, where more articulation would fail me? Few words rightly hold the meanings they govern when used losely on the tongues of many.

So perhaps words are not the answer, but a deeper knowing and understanding within one's self which even words cannot tap or express without ruining and cheapening for meaning.

How else to communicate that knowing if not with words? Perhaps that, too, is in knowing.

This is the life
I have chosen.
Some day, when
my heart is ready
I shall move to the next.
But for now, this is the life
I live.
Why mourn the path that
my feet trod?
Why belittle the things
I see and am.
this is the life I have chosen.
When choice reaches to my
heart again, I will
perhaps chose another.
But for now, this is
my existance, not to
bawlk at or seeth for
pitty.
Cause this is the life
that I have chosen.
Until the next path sees
my fate.

So much of humor is in context. So much of love is without.

Page One of what is going to be a very short but long-winded account.

Here you go chicas. The beginning of my masterpiece, just for you, jeanette and dianna. Enjoy. ;)


What would it be like to live in my own world--to have fantasy as my beckoning call and reality only as the subtle foundation on points such as gravity and photosynthesis? I suppose some may know. Those who answer the call of the voices that repeat over and over in the corners of the mind, begging for escape. But I don’t have such an outlet. As I lay my back on the hard, warm concrete, reality becomes all the more oppressive and substantial to my mind.
Sweet, hot air pours over me as while I lay still, listening to the meows of the neighborhood stray and the ever present swoosh, swoosh, swoosh of the cars on the nearby Interstate-15. The garage has become my reprieve in the recent months as the heat and pressure become heavier both inside and outside the one-story rambler that I’ve grown up in.
Summers are always hot in this part of the country. You learn during the summer time to love the color brown—for it means that there must be some sort of consistency in life when comparing it to the less impressive tan of the winter season. But as the time goes on you learn to look past the brown and see varying shades in the rainbow. The dusky, the sour and the palest of sage mingle their way in with the copper, sienna and umber.
I’ve lived in the same blue-painted brick house for my entire life. My mother’s uncle built it in the early fifties and it has been modified exactly once in that time—three years ago when we added shag carpet to the before hardwood floors and painted the walls a pale shade of sea foam green from the former egg shell. Every floor board creaks and occasionally, despite Mother’s best efforts for upkeep, we have a friendly mouse skitter its way across our kitchen floor looking for a morsel to sate its gnawing pangs of hunger. Out here, only the fittest survive.
The garage is the one place where I can feel like my own person. The bare beams of the ceiling seem ageless. I imagine myself a mountain man in the old west honing and stripping beams from giant trees to build a house for my family. I imagine yellow-stained door that leads into the fenced back yard as the tent to a teepee leading into the forest of a mythical Native American story. Reality shows that it leads to more concrete and a half-hearted attempt at a rock garden—my mother’s latest attempts at feng shui and water conservation. The car under an old grey tarp could be Ford’s original prototype and I the apprentice to the master.


And there ends my creativity for a couple of years...until I get antsy again. This particular fountain pen perhaps has run dry...

Starting, but how to proceed?

The mind blots like ink from a fountain pen charged with too much substance. When nothingness finds itself shaken, I'm faced suddenly with a tidal wave and a gush of thought unable to be stoppered. I fear reinforcing action as a habit while at the same time find myself unable to repress the hunger to create.

On Art

Scarce a dream, the repreive from life that art brings. There is an escape to be found in that world. As the music drifts on the sun-filled beams the music becomes alive with it. Each spec of dust in the air holds a microcosm of the music that surrounds it.
When you step into a room with art, be it a play, a gallery or a symphony, the world stops. You are swollowed whole, enveloped in the sensation that is creativity. You're allowed to believe in something that is better than yourself. For half an hour, an hour, two, you become lost in a world that all together different than the one you're in. This world is full of plot, action, ending and begining. Even in the simple glance of a picture a whole world is contained--a story in a portrait made of oil and pigment that depicts hardship, social status, hopes, fears and the captivity of the soul therein.
What would life be like, to never leave that room of art? To be that painting, living within the frame? To live in the world of a dance? The angle, the movement, the line--the emotion all more than mere expression. All previews into another world--another life--another existance.
That stop is what my heart cries for. The leap from reality to reality. A taste of it makes you hunger for the next, and fasting makes you more impatient rather than tolerant of the lack.
To lose yourself to the world of artistic creativity would be to lose yourself forever. For who would want to surface from such a existance? A form of insanity that is limited only by your own creativity and desire to pursue.