I totally don’t know what to write this morning.  Sometimes it just seems like such a
chore to get about the business of telling my story.  For anyone who ever questioned whether or not writing could
count as a “real job,” my answer is unequivocally yes.  I enjoy it very much, but there is
something scary and daunting about the task of typing out my thoughts every
morning.  Some days it is easier
than others. 

Should I make an attempt at poetry?  Sometimes I think I should stick only
to the book, to use this time to get all those stories out and to keep
hammering away until I’ve done it, to not let go of that thread.  Lord knows, it’s a thin one.  But then I think, “Hey, why not
experiment?  Why not just be
artsy-fartsy and try a whole passel of creative endeavors?”  It’s sort of like the painting, which I
want to continue playing around with.
I think the more I allow my creativity to flow, the more material I will
have.  I’m beginning to see
creativity like love—you know, the more you give away, the more you
receive?  I had actually been
afraid that if I wrote my story down, I might just dry up.  Maybe if I told my one and only story,
then, I would find I had nothing else within me.  However, I’m seeing that the opposite is true.  The more I write, the more I paint,
needlepoint, draw or build things, the more my creative juices flow.  Another valuable lesson from my
experience at the Folk Art School, I think.  Can you tell I feel pretty strongly about that place?

So that leads me back to my question about the poetry.  I would really like to try some.  I’m a little afraid of poetry to be
perfectly honest.  It’s not
something I feel entirely comfortable with—but, hell, there are so many types
and styles of poetry to choose from, surely I can find something that would fit
my stories.  And, best of all,
writing, poetry or otherwise, is a form of art, which essentially means I can
do whatever I feel like and it will be OK.  Maybe that’s what I like about art as opposed to say…
math.  There is such freedom in
it.  I suppose mathematicians enjoy
math because of the certainty of it.
In math, there is a definite and correct answer, or at least I assume so
since I know very little about higher math, and I imagine there is great
security in that knowledge.  For
many people, the nice, neat boxes that make up the world of math and numbers are
probably extremely satisfying.
There is a problem, and it has a concrete solution.  There is no ambiguity or reason for
doubt.  I can certainly see the
appeal of that, but I also like the idea of magic and interpretation and
imagination, where not everything can be explained, and you actually don’t want
it to be.

Rob likes to watch these “How’d They Do That?” shows that
explain how magic tricks are done.
What’s the point of that?
If you know what the magician is doing, then the magic is gone.  I know that others may not see it that
way, but I do.  I actually don’t
want to know about cold and warm air colliding when I think about thunder.  Angels moving furniture is so much more
appealing.  And that’s what I like
about art.  It can be anything you
want it to be; it’s your perspective on the world, both outside and inside your
own head.  And, once it’s out
there, it is different things to different people.  So I think I will write a poem; it may not be very good, and
I may not even choose to share it, but every creative endeavor brings us one
step closer to who we are, and being who we really are is the ultimate freedom.