Sitting alone, a windowpane apart from the storm, I see layers of emerald, sage, and aquamarine. The plants I’ve nursed and the ones that stood long before I’ve arrived, they’re sucking up nourishment like grateful babes dancing through the rain. And I’m so numb I wish to join them. I could go running naked into the empty lot behind our house. I would lace up tall, brown boots, jump the gate, and go sloshing through the lush, neon grass. I’d roll around and sink my bare behind into a pile of mud. I’d tilt my head and invite the wet on my face.
And somebody would call me crazy. It’d be lewd. I live in a dangerous part of town so it could invite unwanted attention.
So somehow, after all this, I’m trapped inside. And I’m crawling out of my skin.
Meanwhile, I’m a true daredevil for story. I simply long for the permission. Maybe if I were better, I’d give myself the go. But if somebody pounded on my door demanding I run amok, I’d be so very grateful. Directors have forced me into the January ocean at dawn, demanded I gorge myself on sticky chicken wings, fling myself off of mechanical bulls, and stand a half-dozen hours wrapped in sweaty cellophane. I absolutely love to be afraid and uncomfortable, coaxing myself to grow. At the time, these experiences were dreaded but now, God, I wish somebody would… help… me… feel ALIVE.
- This has been your peek into the bi-weekly inner turmoil that boils to the surface for barely no reason when you’re, ya know, “an artist” 😉