revision

i spent the entirety of yesterday going back and forth between two drawings and an essay on Revising Poetry. the day went by in a quick breeze of graphite and pages turned. the same few pages, over and over again, looking for an answer... but really, looking for an easy answer. the quick fix.

and then a very close friend of mine called crying. nothing tragic... except the tragedy of life itself... disillusionment. and feeling so pitifully unequal to the task before you. that horrible sigh that sweeps through your entire body. the sigh that says it's just so much work.

and though our daily circumstances are very different, the root issues that make up my and my friend's struggles are pretty much identical: tremendous worry and confidence that seems to fail too easily.

while we were talking i heard myself say: if i could just stop worrying so much, i'd get so much more done. all the time i spend worrying, all the time i spend trying to unearth myself from all this worry, could be spent actually working toward the goals i'm trying to reach. my own words sort of slapped me in the face. here i was, trying to build someone else up, trying to give them stamina for the fight, and i ended up saying exactly what i needed to hear. in fact, it's something that i need to hear on a fairly regular basis. that one step, one day, one drawing at a time, one word either read or written at a time, one thing learned, one thing gained, one inch at a time, i will end up building a life that feels right. it comes down to faith. belief in oneself... to keep the dream tight while the big bad world outside, rife with status symbols and expectations, screams NO in your face. to keep going, keep moving, no matter how short the ground i've gained is, in spite of the nay-sayers outside my window. to beat back my own disillusionment and truly believe in myself and the meaning i'm trying to create within my own life. do i really need re-assurance in order to do that? or even praise? those things sure do feel good, but are they really necessary?

i have always written. i have always made drawings and paintings. i have always sung in the shower. i think that as a result of being such a shy child, and also the massive tragedy that found my family so early, i clung to particular talents in an attempt to feel safe. these things became a sanctuary. they were the only site i had where i felt safe and was truly myself. opening up those talents to include the eyes and opinions of others is a very scary thing. basically, i don't want my sanctuary demolished or laughed at or called "flawed". and so i have to beat it in my head, over and over and over again, that my sanctuary is MINE, it's for ME, it is OF ME, and the words and eyes of others don't destroy that. it either welcomes them or it doesn't. and if my work fits well with the life of another human, it is a grand and beautiful thing. i can feel connected and strong and encouraged. i can feel less alone. but even if no one liked what i do, i'd still do it. i know this because that's always been the case. i've always written. i've always made pictures. i've always sung in the shower or some dark corner where no one could hear.

i guess becoming an artist is also about leaving the dark corner. finding a way to make that safety mobile. finding a way to carry the sanctuary with you, on your back like a hermit crab... a bookcase in the brain, all the bibles lined up one right after the other, and just say it matters to ME.

consistent, sustained action in a single direction. and if i come up against a wall and have to chip it down with my own toe-nails... well, that's exactly what has to happen then. and Revising Poetry feels pretty much just like that. this search. this wanting everything to work out... and work out RIGHT NOW. this dark road, no answer, except just keep going.

just keep going. just keep going. and don't make it bigger than it actually is. i have a very bad habit of that. i build things up to be so huge and scary and important in my own head... that nasty perfectionism that really only serves to silence me. that's where all this ridiculous worry originates. fear of my own imperfections. fear of being disappointing. fear of not being good enough. all the common worries of artists. of people in general.

part of maintaining my practice is learning how to trust the process of the thing itself. trusting that yesterday's activities of reading and drawing were, in fact, WORK and that i did move forward... whether or not i can actually feel it. a lot of the struggle of being an artist is overcoming a shit ton of really bad social and cultural lessons- definitions of what constitutes success, what constitutes value.

a lot of this is simply going my own way and not worrying about it so much.

and so... like revising poetry, it's going to take lots of time and effort and somehow managing to acquire fresh eyes every now and then. gaining a new perspective, a fresh perspective, and not giving up. and when i get stale-mated, put it in the drawer and come back to it later when i've learned more, experienced more, and have a better attitude about the task at hand... when i'm not so worried about "what it all means!" and "but is it even any good?"

sometimes, i have to try to let the joy of the act be enough. because it is. it really really is. and to wrap my mind around the fact that, YES, even "work" can be joyful.