Being an artist is a solitary journey. I am Jane Eyre watching my word children and book husband dance before me. The fear and delight of letting my secret skeltons out of the closet like fireflies or butterflies desperately catching and releasing.
Rumi gave us bird wings as a map to independent isolation and a volcano simmering to create a new island. Maybe in Hawaii where the sand settles to host the mainland then plunges’ into the ocean for a future to rebirth.
I contract and i expand within my own source of validation praying for life to take notice. Pretending to not care as the fist open and closes. Wanting it forever open but rumi told me no.
He gave me that guest house to sit and ponder on its friends and enemies and endlessly capturing the not quite there and good enough. Are we connected to an invisible master or have we lost our minds. A thin veil between mastery and muzzle. Lined up so pretty to throw a buck or two into the tip jar and grateful to be invited.
A hobby that overtakes all my waking and no person can truly see. Pushed aside to make room for overhead lights and back to my cubby little girl fancy. When are you going to grow up. echo when are you going to get serious. Words of pain do not pay the rent so back up and allow me to be better than you.
Pride to make mistakes and prejudice to tally my knowledge and memorize my labor. A Coppermine testing my skin to see what is below the field of brain rantings to be part of the group. King James reminds me of the simple gift of not knowing intelligence and off the beaten path towards Edenborough castle that I see through this obscure camera. Melting at the drop of water but a symbol none of us can deny.
I am on a solitary journey with the way set forward by the lost writers we celebrate on a silver screen.