In a recent attempt to date again, I fell for a person too fully to avoid the oftentimes avoidable experience re. falling through time, hearing the already too distant, lost in strange, divergent extenuating circumstances that can be summed up in terms of falsely universal truthes. Within the seven days, we passed what was the interval of a week as many times and traveled through questions with answers that should have been something that was exciting to discover--but then here I am alone again with more room than before carved out in the internal solitude. Impassable distance to ask how he's doing.
My options in life have never felt more or less limited than they will very shortly, given any number of possibilities unfolding in any number of rapid or backwards directions..
Drawing is one of few things that has been a reliable quieting remedy ... portable and salient through almost any conditions; when drawing failed to serve its purpose.. an activity that I can use to short-circuit my voice. Pages of my notebooks become a manageably scaled white vacuumed alcove--play room or office nook (expanding into the oversized dimensions of an adult dreamer's studio/library).
Within the pages of each book, play time began every time I turned a page; when too messy.. which went quickly in class or at home, with promise of next direction from attentive, sure-handed teachers-- and as slowly as possible when alone- drawings marked by the absence of courage; layers of erasure, extending paper through absence of trace and an economy of imagery. a few characters and themes repeated a thousand times over...become a thousand different stories, different directions with implied movement..Eventually, a page is turned--bringing with it none of the kind of cliched fresh start relief. At this time, what relief do we find in beginning yet again?