The universe may be trying to lure me back to my art. At least Whiskey River's posts the last few days certainly are trying to do so:
"What do drawings mean to me? I really don't know. The activity absorbs me. I forget everything else in a way that I don't think happens with any other activity."
- John Berger
There is a moment, and all the longing of your soul craves it ever-after: a losing of oneself. For the over-active, self-reflective mind, Art is a Balm for the Soul.
I discovered a hint of it in drawing, but that was more a mathematic puzzle at first; a solving of proportion, angle, line. The discipline later brought more freedom, but it's still hard for me to "forget" when I'm drawing a visible subject.
Then one day, I returned to the dust from whence I came, and lost my mind in clay. Literally. I put a lump of clay in front of me and began. When I looked up again a few minutes later, four hours had passed.
I stood trembling, cold fear creeping up my spine for the briefest moment. Where had I been?
Epilepsy runs in my family and for a nanosecond I cast about looking for an anchor of a clue as to what had happened. Out-of-body experience? No, wait. It was obvious in front of me that I had been very busy creating. Yes, I remembered some of it--spraying the clay to keep it wet, keep it moving. Singing and humming, sipping a diet coke.
I hadn't been away from anywhere but me.
Escape, pure and simple. More clay, good music, time alone. Repeat. I wish I had a more addictive personality because it's been two years since I've sculpted clay, played my guitar, sang, or painted.
I fear the same will happen to this blog experiment in writing. I love writing, but haven't found my "voice" yet. I'm hoping the discipline of writing even a little something every day will get me where I want to go. Oh wait. I don't even have a map.
Maybe I just need to lose myself again.