I don't know why I am here. I don't know why I am creating...except that I have to - ugh, sometimes I hate that I have to. I feel like I am trying to tunnel myself out of a mass of old dirty clothes that have been piled on top of me by the truckloads.
This whole being an artist and claiming that word thing is hard. I don't know how to navigate between the vulnerable archetype I have created through my "branding" and the logical mind that is constantly editing and fine tuning that "brand". Maybe that logical mind needs to shut up. Yep, I think that logical mind needs to shut up. In fact, I am starting this new blog so that I can share with you as I navigate trying to tell that very logical mind to shut up as it is simultaneously screaming at me from the outer rim of my skull.
Finding channel and navigating the space of creative consciousness makes so much sense to me when I am writing poetry, acting, improvising movement, drawing, etc...but my logical mind does not want to go to this same understanding and knowing when it comes to "packaging" all that stuff up and sharing. I hate sharing. Sharing makes me feel nauseous, which is why I feel it is necessary to do so right here, right now. In the book "Healing Back Pain" it talks of nausea being a sign of repressed anger and I have so much of it in relation to my career. AAAAAND I hate the word career. It's so daunting, and looming. It feels like a pressure to arrive somewhere and commit to something for life. I don't want to commit to anything for life - except living I suppose. Everything should ebb and flow, but the word career feel solid and foundational and so I hate it.
I grew up in a not so solid, not so foundational way and I get all wiggly and uncomfortable with the idea of permanence. It makes my insides crawl and I'm sure it has something to do with me not being able to love myself, blah, blah, blah. But what really matters is that I feel like I'm being strangled and I can't figure out who's strangling me inside of myself. What is the construct I am fighting? I can feel its fingers pressed in on my throat. Squeezing just enough to let me know that it's always there.
And so the night ends.
And tomorrow will bring with it new light.