i never head to the new stores, new roads, new lawns with no trees in the yard, and despite what a local radio ad says, i am attracted more to those restaurants with hand painted signs, not the others with signs slick and perfect, no brushstroke to be seen. i never head to where it all looks the same at first glance, the mailboxes standing in neat little rows, the flowers tamed and stifled, one thumbwidth between each blossom, no telling secrets from bloom to bloom. i never head in that direction. i like things a little messy.
"it is so very easy to fall into step
with these rhythms and easeful footsteps around me . . ."
from maddie this weekend, with perfect timing.
i know of what she speaks. i know this dance that is not my own. i sometimes go for days with no reading of anyone's work, no blogs, no images, no books. it is where the second-guessing lives, where footsteps are drawn on a dance map - put your left foot here, put your right foot there, and no matter how secure you are, if you have an artistic soul that questions everything - everything, everything, everything! - you question yourself and you fall into those others' rhythms and you are lost - after all, their music sounds divine, so why not? you think. it is not vanity, you understand, it is fear that everyone else has it just right and you don't.
so i leave the music off, the words unread, the pictures unseen, and i let my rhythms move me. sometimes they are too-fast movements, sometimes slow, mournful, painful steps; sometimes my hip hurts when i move a certain way, but move that way i must or i will stay stuck.
sometimes the best artist date of all is to stay out of the museums.
i haven't been anywhere these last few days, i've been right here, just being, just sitting, because sometimes i need that. another need. always another need. but it's one i've learned to honor because it's where my words are born - words that will be poetry or paintings, beginnings or endings, trash or treasure, kept or tossed. words that need room, space of their own, words that nestle next to me, sprawling on the couch, watching baseball. words conceived in nothingness. i jot down sentences here and there, type a few lines, nibble some chocolate, and revel in the being nowhere. and then i come back.