I suppose it all started with a desire to share the vagabond's scrambled approach to self centred journalism.
is that not a blog?
I was writing a lot in little note books, and enjoyed reading it, mostly for myself, but enjoyed sharing the odd scribble as well.
now I only write on here, or in texts and the odd postcard. even when I have desire to write down some thoughts I save them for here. now I'm addicted to sharing my thoughts. so here are a bunch more.
I am feeling some withdrawal symptoms of travel, movement.
I moved in and unpacked. i relaxed, then drew flame to my desires, I huddled around my burning thoughts. I missed the public wandering. the library living room and ocean side kitchen. I missed waiting for rides and uncomfortable new interactions.
i had wanted to settle down and have a place to stretch my fingers and spread paint around in a room. now i have it and feel more disconnected from the painter i had been smothering and hoped to set free, i had so many faces that were passing through my mind, smeared with bold colours, disproportioned ears, eyes and noses. now those faces are bland dried figures, crumbling and dissolving.
so now i walk around in the forest and sit on rocks and stare out at the thrashing sea. rain is soaking through my jacket and i can feel a trickle running down my arm to my elbow as i raise my hands in praise of the perfect creation surrounding me. i follow the hast in the clouds, with my eyes, as they sweep over the spotted islands, hills and mountains sitting on the horizon, i careen my neck to see an adolescent eagle flap through the underbrush of the ravaged trees screaming along the shoreline behind me.
i have been admiring so much landscape and so many artists who have found and fulfilled the desire to translate it all.
i have never wanted to be a landscape painter, nor i do feel i have the right to be one.
but something twisted in my person seems to think i should be. seems to think that i am capable. i could stick to taking photographs of it all, but i have all this paint in my home, and it was intended as an investment as well as a means for fulfilling some tragic desire.
i am nearly thirty, and every year, every month i realise that as much as i have figured out, i have that much more to learn, or to just accept.
looking back on the past, only for a moment, looking forward, for a fright, living now, for lack of an ability to do otherwise.
may this "new" year be as tragic and beautiful as the last.