The life you save may be your own

Sometimes I do look back and marvel. Much different than longing, I marvel that I survived being a teenager. Or that any of us do. I guess everyone has their share of near misses and stupid decisions, but they seem to come fast and furiously when you're that age.

I lost a lot of friends when I was just a kid. Car accidents mostly. Every one of them mind-blowingly tragic. A beautiful person no longer on this earth.

Those losses never completely go away. The only way I know to cope with them at all is through writing and art. It's critical for me to celebrate a life with a poem, a painting, a song. . . repairing the circle.

One thing we can always count on is change.

I have this great book by Fred Babb - it's called Go to your Studio and Make Stuff and his philosophy just resonates with me in the same way I dig Socrates and Aristotle. Really.

Here's a quote from Fred Babb: As children reach their teens, some find that the nagging self-doubt of childhood has become a gaping hole. To fill this void, some of these kids will turn to drugs and alcohol. Others will find the arts and fill the hole with large doses of their own self-wonder.

We are all beautiful, and we all have something of value to say.

And I haven't completely overcome the nagging self-doubt thing, either. I just know it now for what it is. And isn't.

I do know art saved and saves and will save me.

D'oh!

Okay, it's late. I'm taking a break from making play dough. 17 batches so far tonight. Purple, pink, green, blue. More pink. Neon blue.

I must say a brief thanks to my stand mixer, without whom none of this wonderful dough would be happening. We're trying a new marketing strategy tomorrow - handing out play dough and discount coupons for Art classes at the Easter Parade. Play dough is so fun. I usually like to make it with Kool-aid (smells great, tastes horribly salty). But for tomorrow it's food coloring, so, unscented.

I'm dreaming of starting a pottery studio. Yes, I love sticky dough, but clay is the most fun. Love to have my hands in it most of all. Even if all I make is a mess.

And yes, I make plenty of those.

Time's Fell Hand

Does it ever feel like time is slipping away from you?. . . like there is so much to do and none of it is meaningful?

Remember when you were a child and it seemed like forever passed between two of your birthdays . . .

And now that you're older they just go whizzing by, the birthdays, the months, the years. A relentless cycle that cannot be slowed.

Time. Whatever it is.
But the moment is so critical. Right now. Are you enjoying yourself right now? (I am, because blogging is fun - like journaling out loud.) How often do you check in with yourself to make sure you are loving your moments?

It's a good habit.
And like Aristotle said, "We are what we repeatedly do."

so what do you want to be when you grow up?

Perspective Game

Still pondering perspective, after five or so days of being ridicuously exhausted and ill.
Here's my favorite Jack Gilbert poem, because people should share poetry.

Games

Imagine if suffering were real.
Imagine if those old people were afraid of death.
What if the midget or the girl with one arm
really felt pain? Imagine how impossible it would be
to live if some people were
alone and afraid all their lives.


I love a good short clear poem.
One that makes you pause.
Makes you be here fully, maybe haunts you for twenty years or so.

I'm feeling better, but still short-winded.
Have a great evening.

102.4

Nothing like a good ear-ringing fever to remind you how good it is to feel. . . well, good.

Perspective.

it really is everything, isn't it?
i'm up for absolutely nothing but sleep . . .

see you tomorrow.

oh, drudgery

Practice practice practice

so many grownups think they can't draw.

that's ridiculous. if you can write your name, well you're drawing letters, aren't you?
you wouldn't expect to sit down at a piano and play Beethoven flawlessly on your first try, would you? it's all about practice.

i think it happens early in school. someone (probably someone who doodles alot while the teacher is talking) gets tagged as "the artist" and all around the classroom, the other kids start to think that means they're not artists too.

i remember my band teacher used to talk about the hidden messages in what people say.
example: "Your hair looks so nice today!" (implies it has never looked nice before . . .)

Think about it -
do you ever tell yourself you're not good at drawing? singing? whatever?
think too, about the hidden messages children hear. ("my brother's good at drawing." "I'm the athletic one.") . . .

creating something is such a wonderful feeling. no one should feel they cannot do it.
and if you do it often enough, you'll get good, and people will start to tag you . . . .

feeling philosophical today

Everyone's reality is different — and isn't that okay?

What is life all about anyway?

Here's the answer: Creativity.

Ha! That's the answer from my reality anyway. I'm done searching for meaning. I just love to do stuff. Art, writing, lame cooking . . . let's not talk about the singing . . . but I do it, because it's fun. Creating is one thing I can control. If I don't do it, I long for it.

School tries to mold little rule-followers, color-in-the-liners. It's important. We've got to all live here together for a while.

But it's time to get out the crayons again, folks. Color outside the lines . . . on the walls . . . on your underwear. Express yourself. Have fun. . .