- Fine Art
… And it isn’t until quarter to one in the morning that i find time finally to sit and simply write. Instead, it is a day made up of doing, thinking, acting, doing, acting, thinking, acting and doing but not always in that order. I made myself a schedule on iCal. I am trying to stick to it. But the late nights don’t support the early morning yoga. That or i need to start scheduling in naps more often…
Standing in front of the canvas, the mind just goes on and on and on… it never seems to stop and finally, i get a moment in there- a chance to breathe, a part where my heart opens up because there simply isn’t anything else to say and I have stopped listening anyway. It repeats the same things over and over, changing a few words here and, a name there. It is like a forgetful child, walking around in circles, looking under a stone and saying a-ha! look what i have found here! And then putting it down as he has seen another stone to look under. Then, within minutes he is back at the first stone, saying, once again, a-ha!
But they are not a-has of joyful discovery. They are a-has of the same old story; a-has of “I knew it all along”. They are a-has of my ego as it tries to nail one more nail into my own coffin while, at the same time, through my own mindfulness, through my own challenging of myself and my perceptions, i try to nail one more nail in it’s own… one cannot kill an ego though. It goes and goes and tells a thousand stories about itself. It carries on in the most rambling and forgetful of ways- telling me the same stories, getting enraptured over the same distractions, finding titilation over the same mindless tricks…
I get tired of it though.
It tries to tell me the stories are for my own good. And I listen sometimes as it tries to prove itself right. It never does but walks around in circles… that forgetfully self-centered child that it is. It tries to tire me out and get me to put down my paint brush, offering distraction but i love to paint. Sometimes, i sit, at my computer, doing stuff… eventually it is not work at all. Or it is just fiddling. Fiddling with things which are already finished. Not starting anything new. Or starting new things, projects, which i can get to later. Passing time. And I look at my canvas. I think “I should be painting” (because I love to paint. I lament when I don’t have time to paint and I long for it when it isn’t around) and then I go read the bbc news (and then compare it to what i have read in CNN and Al-Jazeera and maybe the Iranian news and the New York Times as well or I look on boingboing.net at some new inanity but sometimes there is something cool says my mind… and so i go… and then, sometimes, but not always, I grab myself- it almost feels like I physically grab myself, and wrench yself out of my seat at the drafting table and enter the painting space.
It is as comfortable as picking up a fork and eating. It is as gentle as freshly fallen snow. It is as nourishing as the sun. It is like going home. Again and again and again. And then… once we’re home.. we just go and go and go…. we burn up… we become love… we are the cosmic gates opening to the dawn awareness… understandings of who and how i am… of the nature of the world and the veins of a leaf… reality as it is… coming, going, moving, changing, a wave, a vibration, an instant. All of it. At once. Beauty.
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