![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
burningcorridorsI've been thinking a lot about this page, and, in general my own personal need for my art style.
A lot of my art was used to express my own cabin fever, accrued from a lack of strength to leave the house, and the lack of will to gain the strength. It was a feedback loop of sadness I was too afraid to express. In the style of McArthur Wheeler, I was caking layers of my paint on my face as a new, shitty safety blanket. The paint is poisoning me, I think.
I get to go outside now, and the paint is still poisoning me. Every time I check my website another random hundred or so people visit. I don't know if they're bots, but it at times feels like I've made what should've been a time to pass into a spectacle. Rather than letting the scars fade, I willed that time into a keloid.
I don't think I want to make my art anymore. I've finally gotten a taste of nature and wind and clouds and Her, and GOD... Her, and I don't know if I want to keep up my same old act.
I'm at the the threshhold, the point of attrition between the chariots of sawblades and the lovers who grow back. I am afraid. I am so so afraid of what'll happen when I see Her again. Afraid of the ecstatic joy cracking my facade, like I'm a clay jug scared of its lover's roots and tubules taking form.
Clay covers? adorns? insults? my face. With a symbol written in dry-erase marker, my mask is only capturing stale air and faded smudges from readjusting. The symbol is a gold inner ring, with a green ring protecting it; A far simpler display compared to the past, but the truest one. It came from a dream, where I peeled away a mirror made of foil and indium and saw the form past my face. My mask is a crude reconstruction of that starry night, but how can you refine such a lovely smear?
Fear Fear Fear Fear Fear. Low grit. Deep shit. I am not afraid anymore.
Walk.
Walk.
Walk. Talk. No Talk? What? Love? Hug. Love! Hand in hand. Soft. Sandy. Inverted. Tangled.
Words fail. Where words? Miss words. Hi! Wow. Wow! Kiss. Eyes level. Eyes kind. Tea reminds. Brings back it all. [I wish.] Run. Skip. Joy. Happy. Smile with all mouths. Clay rubble is only rubble. Past pragmata. Past ratios. Play. Friends. Happy. Happy. [I wish.] Rest. Leaves. Rustle. Clouds. Love. Love. [Stop. This needs to stop. I am coping. This is pure coping. This is not a thing that happens. I need to stop. I need to stop. I need to stop.]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]No. Even if only one smile smiles wide. Even if the clay and the face are one and not. Even if there's no tea to drink. Love Love Love Love Love. Love is liquid in a cracking jug.
Headlight! Euphone! Cascade! Flourish! Water! Moonlight! Cloudy! Flower! Frustrate! Confound! Shatter! LOVE!!! YOU!!!!!!!!!
The corridors have stopped burning. The ash washed into the soil, and the soil is now bearing stems that may one day flower.
I am doing okay, by the way. I'm just not doing okay in another way.
This is (not) coping.
A lot of my art was used to express my own cabin fever, accrued from a lack of strength to leave the house, and the lack of will to gain the strength. It was a feedback loop of sadness I was too afraid to express. In the style of McArthur Wheeler, I was caking layers of my paint on my face as a new, shitty safety blanket. The paint is poisoning me, I think.
I get to go outside now, and the paint is still poisoning me. Every time I check my website another random hundred or so people visit. I don't know if they're bots, but it at times feels like I've made what should've been a time to pass into a spectacle. Rather than letting the scars fade, I willed that time into a keloid.
I don't think I want to make my art anymore. I've finally gotten a taste of nature and wind and clouds and Her, and GOD... Her, and I don't know if I want to keep up my same old act.
I'm at the the threshhold, the point of attrition between the chariots of sawblades and the lovers who grow back. I am afraid. I am so so afraid of what'll happen when I see Her again. Afraid of the ecstatic joy cracking my facade, like I'm a clay jug scared of its lover's roots and tubules taking form.
Clay covers? adorns? insults? my face. With a symbol written in dry-erase marker, my mask is only capturing stale air and faded smudges from readjusting. The symbol is a gold inner ring, with a green ring protecting it; A far simpler display compared to the past, but the truest one. It came from a dream, where I peeled away a mirror made of foil and indium and saw the form past my face. My mask is a crude reconstruction of that starry night, but how can you refine such a lovely smear?
Fear Fear Fear Fear Fear. Low grit. Deep shit. I am not afraid anymore.
Walk.
Walk.
Walk. Talk. No Talk? What? Love? Hug. Love! Hand in hand. Soft. Sandy. Inverted. Tangled.
Words fail. Where words? Miss words. Hi! Wow. Wow! Kiss. Eyes level. Eyes kind. Tea reminds. Brings back it all. [I wish.] Run. Skip. Joy. Happy. Smile with all mouths. Clay rubble is only rubble. Past pragmata. Past ratios. Play. Friends. Happy. Happy. [I wish.] Rest. Leaves. Rustle. Clouds. Love. Love. [Stop. This needs to stop. I am coping. This is pure coping. This is not a thing that happens. I need to stop. I need to stop. I need to stop.]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]No. Even if only one smile smiles wide. Even if the clay and the face are one and not. Even if there's no tea to drink. Love Love Love Love Love. Love is liquid in a cracking jug.
Headlight! Euphone! Cascade! Flourish! Water! Moonlight! Cloudy! Flower! Frustrate! Confound! Shatter! LOVE!!! YOU!!!!!!!!!
The corridors have stopped burning. The ash washed into the soil, and the soil is now bearing stems that may one day flower.
I am doing okay, by the way. I'm just not doing okay in another way.
This is (not) coping.
