*An unedited script on death, time as an artist, with some poetry and what it actually means to be silent as a creator.
My art and writing turned quiet and inward in the last year.
My Dad died.
He wasn’t just my Dad,
he was a great guy and someone I could talk easy too. he was a good friend. A constant inspiration. Before that, his mom died, and that was a whole other well of lost thoughts and dreams I have to find in the world again.
The world turned inward. Colors spread out came through my eyes and flipped like the biological lens we Carry.
The last thing I made that people saw was his obituary.
Colors turn backwards.
The thoughts turn inward.
It’s something we do. We watch things come and watch things go. The waves bring new stones and broken bones, and sometimes we loose the way.
The way leads on, says Edwin Muir.
I turn 30 this year. I’m collecting pages of old books and burning old dreams. Those dreams recycle, into something tangible.
We are the sum of what we leave behind. Who do we become?
The lens reverses.
When the colors are ready.
My mirror is full of scars, dark eyes, and things I never wanted to see.
Full of life experiences that are beyond comprehension in their beauty. Generosity. Camaraderie.
I am fortunate in my work.
If I was handed the riches
Of the world, I’d decline,
I would rather have friends, in all the wrongful right places.
They are the riches the world forgot. Rough like stone, glittering in the harshest light.
We don’t get to choose what happens to us, but we get to choose what we do with right here and now. We choose what we do with what we got when we got it.
Tomorrow mourns, the fallen artisan.
Tomorrow awaits, the aspiring dreamer.
Tomorrow mourns, the end of time.
Time reveals the Calls,
Stuff and stout in place.
The prospect long sought, defines its line,
To stand again,
At End Of Time.
The fallen artisan.
The Aspiring Dreamer.