Just...

So. I'd intended to enter blog zone tonight and write about some art related business - including a mention of an enjoyable meeting with two gallery directors last Friday and my delight in being able to use all those words in the one sentence.

I'd also intended to get my head into a book tonight as a prelude to an early night. (I am starting work at 6:30am tomorrow and have not been sleeping well of late). I've not read since we were in Japan... nor had I written much since my return; other than the few blog posts here and some run of the mill emails.

As the evening had it, I found myself in conversation with a friend and fellow artist that I'd not heard from in some time. The conversation prompted me to re-read something I wrote, ( kind of spur of the moment ), the other day... 13 days ago actually.

I don't always share my writing. Sometimes my words are like those little sketches that nobody ever needs to see but are vital to the creative process of making art. I'm choosing to post those words here tonight so that my friend will always know he is not alone.

I sit here
with a glass of red
perhaps for no other reason than
I am trying to remember
(or trying to forget)

what does one do
when one no longer knows themselves
or at least
is no longer familiar
with the person…
the being
that they inhabit?

I used to write a lot
almost every day

when did that stop?

when did I lose the ability
to say what I wanted to say
to express how I really feel
to just WRITE

I have hundreds of letters
that have been written
inside my head
but never made it to paper

words of love
and thanks
that have never made it
to those who deserve them

I used to write
as if
I was dancing like no one was watching
as if
I was singing with nobody listening

when did I become so concerned
with what other people ‘might’ think
when did i
lose the desire
to NOT CARE?

In losing the ability
to randomly ramble
with such carefree honesty
and passion
have I lost touch
with myself?

let me allow myself
to introduce myself
to myself

Hello.

I found an article
on Leonard Cohen
in the paper
last Saturday
it made me smile

as I read it
knowing that I had tickets
to see him
made me cry
but they were not
tears of sadness
but rather
ones of joy

I have waited quite some time for this
Mr. Cohen

sometimes
when I listen to music
it reminds me
of who I really am
it reminds me
that it is ok to feel
what I feel

it reminds me
of people
and places
and things I want to remember
yet often forget

of things
I want to forget
but need to remember
in order to remember
who I am

A Small Bite

I'm a little full of random thoughts lately as opposed to focusing in on any particular thing. Not that multi-tasking/function is rare, especially inside my head but I am possibly a little more scattered and sporadic than usual.

The delight for me is that despite being incredibly busy, I am still noticing little things like a sparrow desperately pecking at some fluorescent pink bubble gum that had been squished into the cement footpath. I curiously admired his persistence and determination as I carried two chai teas to meet C for a short break. I wondered what the attraction was to the gum. Was it the colour? The flavour? Or was the sparrow just into challenging itself? I thought for a minute - 'sweet tooth'? Then realised such an expression could not be used for a creature with no teeth. Sweet beak. My thoughts became a whole bunch of random nonsense but it was kind of nice. It even made me smile.

Even just now, as I poured myself a celebratory glass of red wine - (I got news of my first New York sale today) - I wondered to myself, do people still pour a standard size glass of wine when pouring for themselves at home? As insignificant as that this thought was it once again allowed me to be amused by my mind.

I automatically poured myself a standard glass.

I raise my glass today to Andrew Michael Ford in New York. He has been so wonderful to work with since inviting me to be part of In the Language of Angels and has restored a lot of faith that had recently been lost - not in me, but in others - and for that, I am very thankful.

No-Mo-vember

So it's November already.

I'm not writing a novel, nor am I growing a mo. In fact I'm not doing much other than working, unfortunately not as in 'making art'.

So with not much else to say I will end on 'happy birthday Ryan' and 'best of luck Obama'.