The First Post, the First Step

I'm always in a rush. I am, about most things art related. And about most things in general. I want that instant gratification at times. Or a result that I like straightaway, because according to some part of me, I don't have the time or I don't want to make the time to learn, or to mull it over, or to create. For example, with oil painting. I can't stand it because it takes too long. Layer after layer and the drying process, are you kidding me?! So I don't finish anything. Or with my writing. My mind is going a mile a minute and my pen can hardly keep up. Thus the missed words, extra letters and atrocious handwriting.

Taking the time to create might mean to me a number of things. It might mean that inspiration is fleeting. And if it comes I "gotta do it in one sitting" because it would be impossible to be found again, brought back up to the same intensity... over and over. It could mean that I might really put my heart and soul into something and be so proud of it, only to receive "constructive criticism" and have my heart torn apart. It could mean that the time it takes me to complete a painting, a story, to pick up that guitar and learn, takes me away from my family, my baby mostly. Creativity makes a mess I don't want to clean up, doors that I don't want open, and awakens a part inside of me that is hidden so deep, it's painful pulling her out. Creation means letting that "artist" out that I've worked so hard at putting away. Then pretending I'm artistic or merely dabbling in things without fully being apart, so as not to get hurt by the end result; the painting, the book, the song. Or crushed. Or thought wonderful even... Pretending means my heart can still be guarded, my heart really isn't in it. My heart wants to be, but no, too painful. So rather truly letting my artist out, I put her away, bring out a phony one and then all is well. The phony one is detached. The phony one receives criticism and says, "Oh no bother. I didn't really put that much into it anyhow..." But my artist. My artist. I've been such a poser all these years. Such a fake. Living through artists of the past or the artists in my family, pretending to be one of them, pretending to talk like them, "be into the same things" as them, force myself to. When it's all an act.

Oh I feel her in there. I feel my heart ache as she whispers in my ear "let me out." She presses on my ribcage from the inside out. My genuine, my true, my real artist. My Dharma, as my father-in-law dubs me. Dharma, honey, I'm letting you out. I promise you I will not stop working until you are free to express, free to create, and you and I are one again, like we were when I was a child.