It’s been awhile since I really treated this site as more as a journal and less about criticism, and the urgency under that reason is easily considered. I sometimes need to speak in poetry more than prose to explain some of the things in my mind, and at times I feel the need to be as direct as possible, and through poetry, that comes from the soul. But prose is not that different. It just exists in a different purpose and reality. We don’t typically go around speaking in poetry all the time, and I lost track of it when I’ve been in silence except in poetry most of the day. It’s almost conversational, and that’s where I really feel like this day is one of the most important days of my life.
My partner and I needed to go to San Francisco so I could pick up a painting from a show I was in last month at the Drawing Room. It was the first time I’ve been in the space since I first dropped the piece off. It’s a really amazing gallery, and from what I’ve been told the show went well. I’m on their mailing list and they’re having cool events all the time. If you’re ever around there definitely visit and check out the work. But I digress, that’s not what I wanted to write this post about. What was amazing about the afternoon was how much I had a chance to really think of language in a different way. I was distracted, so every word mattered and was spoken against so much fear, and that’s when it stopped.
I told my partner what was happening and we talked for almost two hours in total, maybe more, between having lunch and taking the long drive between Fairfax and SF. I won’t go into details here, but I told her how down I was about what some people have said about me. That outrage was what was captured in the poetry, but it’s resolution was in the effortless simple act of love, not necessarily romantic, but just the little things, the call and response of our cadences, the questions and replies, and she reminded me what I already know. That I have done nothing wrong and I’m a good person. It’s that simple statement that guarded me against so much depression, and we both decided that I should ignore it. Ignore what? What people try to believe about me that is untrue, the threats that people make when we make challenging work.
“Is there anything that makes you not think about these things?” she asked. I thought for a minute, actually I didn’t have to, and I just realized that when I make art, I think about absolutely nothing else. I could use a colloquialism and just say I get lost in it, but that isn’t as realistic as what happens. It becomes my world, and you’ll never know quite what this is like if you haven’t worked your whole life to do it, everything that happens when I’m making comics feels as real as if it’s happening to me when I make it. It’s like nothing else, and I love doing it. I’m making art right now at the best of my abilities, with nothing but the best intentions in mind. Against so much, this is the only way I know how to be, without it, it’s almost as if I didn’t exist at all. And that’s an easy choice to make, I want to exist, and I want to make art, doesn’t that sound like a simple fact of reality. We all deserve to live and create, that’s without question the right that simply being alive is, without it, it’s like nothing. And nothing is impossible.
And to continue with the approach that poetry and prose can have, and conversation reveals a call and response dialog between our memories, our loved ones, whatever can be meant by spirit, and each other. Perhaps if we elevate the everyday language into that rarified reality, the world will always be new. It already is every day. Every moment is born into another. Is that something we can remember, can our thoughts become like this, like one moment into another? With so much about diplomacy, and peacemaking that our moment needs, perhaps that may guide our way, and as an offering of life against negation, peace against war, and the reality that we all belong to each other. Could we imagine that? Could that make a better world? I’d like to close out this entry with a simple poem that came to mind as I was writing this as I found earlier in this piece. It is simply this:
We can always dream
Nothing is impossible.