Did I ever tell you about my friend Jackson? We met about a year or so ago. I was in a really grumpy mood and sometimes when I’m grumpy it is a really good time to pull out my drawing book and art materials to draw. Drawing is funny that way. One minute your, happy, or grumpy or just neutral, but when you start to draw you forget all about those things, and you only notice how your pen or crayon feels moving on the paper. It’s a very good feeling. This time a little boy — smaller than you, showed up on my paper. He was outside and he was look through a window into a room with at a toy train in it. I could tell he really wanted to play with that train and I felt kind of sad for him. But he wasn’t sad. He told me that sometimes you just get left out of things, and that’s okay. He told me his name was Jackson and that he liked to think. “Sometimes,” he said, “other people don’t understand quiet people who like to think.” I told him that I knew all about that and then we just smiled at each other and we knew we were friends.
I guess you could say Jackson was an imaginary friend, and isn’t that just the best thing about imagination? You can make any friends you want.
I breath a sigh of relief
that after all it was Margaret
and not Louise.
For who would try to measure up
whereas Louise –
Louise may still be within reach.
Wait for it–
Here it comes,
Here comes the sun.
Every musician, painter, writer, every creator walks through doubt and asks, why? Why do I do it? Why do I spend my evenings at the piano, my weekends in the studio and laboratory, my early mornings at my computer struggling to make meaning?
Today, for me, this question was answered by Joseph Conrad.
To snatch in a moment of courage, from the remorseless rush of time, a passing phase of life, is only the beginning of the task. The task approached in tenderness and faith is to hold up unquestioningly and without fear the rescued fragment before all eyes in the light of a sincere mood. It is to show its vibration, its color, its form, and through its movement, its form, and its color, reveal the substance of its truth—disclose its inspiring secret: the stress and passion within the core of each convincing moment. In a single-minded attempt of that kind, if one be deserving and fortunate, one may perchance attain to such clearness of sincerity that at last the presented vision of regret or pity, of terror or mirth, shall awaken in the heart of the beholders that feeling of unavoidable solidarity; of the solidarity in mysterious origin, in toil, in joy, in hope, in uncertain fate, which binds men to each other and all mankind to the visible world.
Trees are definitely on my sweet-spot map. Ask me what a sweet-spot map is sometime. I’ll be happy to explain. Here is a tree images from my portfolio.
It’s the weekend so ideally I should not be writing because I’ve decided to give myself weekends off, but I wasn’t able to get much done during the week, so in fact it is a working weekend. Truly all my weekend are working weekends. There is always housework and laundry that has piled up during the week, and all housework and laundry makes for a dull existence so write or paint on the weekend anyway. I just don’t pressure myself quite as much.
The scene that I should have written this week is one were Ursus, a young student at a wizardry school is confronted by his teacher, Master Donger, for making a mess–literally a mess of porridge–on the Great Hall floor.
And now, back to Master Donger’s umbrage with Ursus.