Wednesday, February 24, 2010
worlds apart
12:43 AM, February 25, 2010. I imagined this time would come. The complete and utter separation of the two worlds I've lived in.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Creativity
Saw a play tonight called "In the Red and Brown Water" that featured beautiful, real words, some energized, and plain good, acting, and dance and movement. It gave me that feeling, a feeling that has grown stronger in my mid-twenties: I feel I need to be creative, artistic, and to do these things well enough to express my soul beautifully. By the end of the performance I wanted to be an actor, an interpretive dancer, a singer. I wanted to stand and applaud a wonderful experience, but something held me back. Others didn't stand in that small theatre. My mother cheered behind me, but I knew my father next to her wasn't standing. As the actors bowed and looked at us, I felt a queasy guilt undulate in my gut. I should stand, but I didn't. The playwright's brilliant words and poetic soul had just been transmitted, perfectly, by these beautiful vessels of emotion and passion.
I felt I had failed in my duty as an audience member. Held back by the petty fear of judgment. I am ashamed still, that I did not stand, and at least show how I felt. Show that I felt a connection to that work, not to mention my sheer adoration. Is this, too, what I am doing with myself?
Not a day goes by that night comes and I feel the hours and minutes scatter away like dark insects among kudzu in the rainy dark. Another day gone, and I summon my resolve, with a dose of self-loathing anger, and vow that tomorrow I will be a writer! With the sunlight comes computers, and dishes, and maybe some work. With the day comes doubt, and a quickening heart rate, and more movement...the kind of movement a hummingbird makes.
I fear slowing down. I fear the blank page, the pen held over the paper unmoving. I fear inspiration, followed by a small success. I just wrote 10 pages straight through, why not take a break? Only the break lasts a month. Most of all, I have feared that I will try and try and try for real. And I will fail.
It has to happen, fears must be faced all of them for life to have the kind of color I want and need it to. And connection to that world spoken of, music'd to, is what I yearn for more than anything.
I felt I had failed in my duty as an audience member. Held back by the petty fear of judgment. I am ashamed still, that I did not stand, and at least show how I felt. Show that I felt a connection to that work, not to mention my sheer adoration. Is this, too, what I am doing with myself?
Not a day goes by that night comes and I feel the hours and minutes scatter away like dark insects among kudzu in the rainy dark. Another day gone, and I summon my resolve, with a dose of self-loathing anger, and vow that tomorrow I will be a writer! With the sunlight comes computers, and dishes, and maybe some work. With the day comes doubt, and a quickening heart rate, and more movement...the kind of movement a hummingbird makes.
I fear slowing down. I fear the blank page, the pen held over the paper unmoving. I fear inspiration, followed by a small success. I just wrote 10 pages straight through, why not take a break? Only the break lasts a month. Most of all, I have feared that I will try and try and try for real. And I will fail.
It has to happen, fears must be faced all of them for life to have the kind of color I want and need it to. And connection to that world spoken of, music'd to, is what I yearn for more than anything.
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