Each of my paintings is a time marked and stamped with a memory. There are so many canvases stacked in corners of my house and even the worst ones are difficult to part with. Throwing them away is like saying that moment didn’t count. But it did. The process filled me. Now, as I work on my manuscript, I visit them on occasion, blow a little dust off their corners.
Forme, and perhaps for you other Americans as well, this July 4th has been very different from all the others. I miss being able to travel from “sea to shining shore” to see fireworks, to have BBQ’s that include more family and friends. I miss the president whose mission was to unite us instead of divide us. Tonight before bed, I will watch Hamilton then clothe myself in strength and wake with the determination that America will secure for us a better tomorrow.
“They settle into the seats around me and make themselves comfortable. They nudge, prod and poke but I ignore them. The memories want me to pay them attention to take me somewhere I’ve already been and don’t care to go back to. They speed me down the track faster than this train is accustomed, faster than I can put a stop to.” The first memory is safe. (Edited excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper)📕 The photo was taken a year ago during my visit to Italy.🇮🇹 I do hope, that in reality, this young woman’s memories were good ones.🙏🏽
You know how some poems you write and look back upon you just think, “oh yeah, I remember that one,” ? I wrote The Girl from Yonder several years ago but find it to be timeless and perhaps applicable to most people at one time or the other.
Now that I’m in limbo while waiting for my editor to return my manuscript, I’m writing more poetry and digging up some of the old ones. I have taken the leap into Instagram and find that, somehow, it has pushed me into a new and different form of creativity.Now, I get to do a bit of photoshop and plunk my poetry onto images! 🙂
Don’t worry, dear Word Document. I’ll be back soon enough. 🙂
Recently, I’ve been doing a lot of postings of encouragement to other writers on Instagram. I think one of the reasons is because part of me is really nervous about receiving my editor’s notes on my latest manuscript. I go from “Why isn’t she finished? Where is her email?!” to “Oh, good, I don’t have her comments yet and I don’t have to begin the tedious process of editing.”
I know that once I begin the process, I will be in another place in time. I will forget where I put things (more often), forget the wet towels in the dryer, not return phone calls, postpone going full-mask to the grocery store, etc.
But I will press on, do what needs to be done, then beg forgiveness to those I have ignored.