Make it a Mission

Sorry I haven't been posting. Again.

Ughhhh. I have been having extreme writer's block. And artist's block. And choreographic block. Creative block in general. I come to start a new post day after day and I just stare at the blank screen with nothing but furious balls of nothing raging amongst my disconnected neuropathways. It's because I'm stressed out. I've had a lot going through my rattled white matter these days, and nights, too. I didn't fall asleep until almost two last night because my thoughts were so wild and disconnected and powerful and frenzied. I'm positively bursting.

Plus the musical is coming up in a month. This is madness. It's not allowed to happen so soon! Actually yes it is. I'm stoked, but that doesn't make it any less stressful.

So, this is me letting you know that I haven't forgotten about this blog or my followers (one of which I lost, but I was sort of expecting that from her anyway), but I haven't blogged because I haven't had a mind clear enough to commit to some reasonable thoughts. I wish I did, but I don't. Maybe soon I'll get my insides laid out flat so I can look at them objectively and share with you my obscure observations in that glorious manner which is blogging.

Speaking of glorious, I actually did manage to create something today other than this sorrowful blog post. I drew Mr C a picture that was supposed to be of him but at first it looked like an Asian woman, and then when I tried to fix it it looked like someone else that doesn't exist with Mr C-ish features, so that didn't go quite like I wanted it to. I gave it to him anyway, and he liked it. He has a collection of my art in his office which inspires me sometimes.

I think I need to take a few days to myself and just listen to some really awesome music, both of my own discovery and the many unbeatable artists Sherman has introduced me to. Music is what keeps me in my zone. Art feeds art.

Being in art is challenging. If your heart isn't in it, there is just no hope of it ever becoming what you want it to be, and you can never be what you want to be within it. Your voice can be seen or listened to or read, but not felt or heard or embodied. Empty art. The worst art. Is it even art at all? Art is in the heart, as they say. I guess heartlessness, by deductive reasoning, is artlessness.

I think I might be going crazy, you know. It's confusing to be such a reasonable person with such a passion for art, which defies logic and safety and wisdom. That isn't what art is about. Art is about taking risks and trying new things and becoming a creature of beauty and originality and wholeness, but being torn between that and my perception of a world with reason, purpose, cause, effect, concreteness...sigh. That is why I am having a block. It's as if my halves are having a standoff within my soul and my consciousness can do nothing but stand by and suffer through it helplessly, like a victimised little scared rabbit until the insanity draws to a close, or a least a compromise.

I heard Chuck Norris once punched a man in the soul. Maybe he should punch mine so it shuts up and lets my body be its own again.