Playing Guitar, For a Cat, Canvas Waiting
I look to find something really fulfilling. Something that would make me think- well, this is worthwhile doing, and somehow fits into the craziness of the world. Half my time is sitting next to the internet, as its part of my work, and its vast world of information and connections and people doing vital things- and also, the tiring overhwhelming trivia of the world, and the constant shouting of people connecting to the greater world. Facebook, all of that, I don't get it, don't like it, find it depressing.
I have new canvases stretched and ready to prime. I have them laid out and gesso ready. And i have a lot of landscapes in my mind, things that need to get out. Not in my mind really, just places i have seen here, in the valley, driving.
Why doing that would be worthwhile, i have no idea. Its not a TED broadcast. Its not anything.
And i have this idea about color, and calculating how many colors there are, and making a movie, and I have the complicated model all made, and think- well, that's something. I could do that.
And its sort of like making up reasons. I have a list, and its why i am here, and I am here, to make a list, and do it. I guess. Its the snake biting its tail.
Painting is vital. Vital. Vitality. Its not the internet, not blogging. Its doing something, thats just between you and whatever it is that gets painted. And there's stuff, like paint, and trees, involved.
Our greatest poet, Emily Dickinson, wrote unpublished, unblogged, unknown. And though Edith Sitwell says her poems suffer from lack of skill, each is like a sweet fruit with dirt in it (i just read), well, somehow she, and not us, found fullfillment in it. As apparently, she did not write for us.
And by chance, hre poems survived. Unlike many other like-spirited, who disappeared from this earth, unknown. And that goes way back- millions of years.
This evening I sat playing guitar for my neighbors cat. Who ran up and down the warm stoop, and then lay down in the sun at my feet, watching the street. Which was quiet. I didnt play that well, but it occurred to me- this is pretty awful. No one anywhere, a beautiful evening, and warm, and this guitar music, and me pouring out my heart...to a cat. Who seems to like me, but i doubt cares about the mood of a guitar. And i thought- well, you (I, not the cat) are spoiled, as this IS what its about. A cat, and warm sun, and you've got your hands on a guitar and a little bit of what you feel coming in, goes out. And there's no big deal. And be OK with that.
What was it exactly, I did before texting, and blogging, and emailing, and telling the people I dont know I was playing guitar for the neighbor's cat?
I have new canvases stretched and ready to prime. I have them laid out and gesso ready. And i have a lot of landscapes in my mind, things that need to get out. Not in my mind really, just places i have seen here, in the valley, driving.
Why doing that would be worthwhile, i have no idea. Its not a TED broadcast. Its not anything.
And i have this idea about color, and calculating how many colors there are, and making a movie, and I have the complicated model all made, and think- well, that's something. I could do that.
And its sort of like making up reasons. I have a list, and its why i am here, and I am here, to make a list, and do it. I guess. Its the snake biting its tail.
Painting is vital. Vital. Vitality. Its not the internet, not blogging. Its doing something, thats just between you and whatever it is that gets painted. And there's stuff, like paint, and trees, involved.
Our greatest poet, Emily Dickinson, wrote unpublished, unblogged, unknown. And though Edith Sitwell says her poems suffer from lack of skill, each is like a sweet fruit with dirt in it (i just read), well, somehow she, and not us, found fullfillment in it. As apparently, she did not write for us.
And by chance, hre poems survived. Unlike many other like-spirited, who disappeared from this earth, unknown. And that goes way back- millions of years.
This evening I sat playing guitar for my neighbors cat. Who ran up and down the warm stoop, and then lay down in the sun at my feet, watching the street. Which was quiet. I didnt play that well, but it occurred to me- this is pretty awful. No one anywhere, a beautiful evening, and warm, and this guitar music, and me pouring out my heart...to a cat. Who seems to like me, but i doubt cares about the mood of a guitar. And i thought- well, you (I, not the cat) are spoiled, as this IS what its about. A cat, and warm sun, and you've got your hands on a guitar and a little bit of what you feel coming in, goes out. And there's no big deal. And be OK with that.
What was it exactly, I did before texting, and blogging, and emailing, and telling the people I dont know I was playing guitar for the neighbor's cat?