Paint has overtaken me. My mind is driven by color. I stop to take a break but end up circling the collage or the paint or the stick or the... The one painting staring at me that I just cannot for fucks sake figure out. She tells me nothing. She sits in limbo, form complete and something to come cloak the stale foam form I set down as a placeholder for the thing that needs to creep out of my mind. It is dark in there, I cannot tell where it is coming from or what She looks like. It is frustrating.
A giant triangular piece of wood, with three sections on the back and side boards - an alter covered in words, collage, paint... an altar to what? I haven't seen the end yet, I don't know either. All I know is that when I am one with that work I am transported deep within the blackest places inside my self, and I touch the softest, most gentle and hopeful. It is a journey below the shields. I can let myself be tender there, be true and raw, because the words and colors in my hand let me handle seeing my self as I truly might be. I cannot face my self without distraction, some form of physical meditation to give voice to the words within. Nothing I write, paint, glue, speak, or do in any form, is for anyone other than my self.
Encoded messages from my subconcious mind, things that never translate well out side of oneself. It is a painful mistake to believe what speaks to you will speak to others. You cannot know, you cannot let their interpretations of your voice give you doubt as to what YOUR truths, YOUR realities, are.
god
