I have been threatening to write a book for years now. The problem is I have never really figured out what that book exactly is. I suppose loosely it would be a memoir. I would want it to help someone in someway. Maybe just to let someone know their feelings were valid. We all want to belong at some point. We want to be part of the pack, the herd, the tribe. Connection is an important part of being human. And with that connection is the hope that we are understood by at least one other.
So, someone advised me to write this book. They essentially asked why am I waiting. And now I ask myself the same question. Why wait?
Everything is relevant to the edge. The border between. The precipice. Neither here nor there. Edge. I have lived my life there. This, I believe, was not always intentional.
Should art be a struggle? I suppose there should be a fair amount of effort in creating, if not, why bother. I have been struggling for the past two days on a painting of me and a guitar. The one hand on the fretboard is driving me nuts. Hands are hard, but this one is proving extraordinaryily so.
A couple of things hit me this morning as I was pondering the day's approach. Perhaps I am trying to be too realistic and it has become stiff. Also, I don't really play the guitar, so I think there is a two-fold guilt going on here, because I also, have some issues about calling myself an artist. Afterall, I am not doing so well at selling anything. So, this whole effort seems a bit contrived, but aren't all of our lives basically just that? So, I guess the thing is, fake it until you convince the world and, more importantly, yourself that you are what you say you are.
Pat Greenwell is an artist. A painter and sometimes poet, he has been searching the New Mexico desert for several years now, looking for lost possibilities and probable intentions.
"...mostly stream-of-consciousness stuff, you know...