*NOTE: This piece was written entirely in December 2015 with no edits since that time. This is extremely important to note, as there are some small parallels to current events in my life and if they are read into too much it will make me look like a SUPER CRAZY PERSON.*
In early April 2015, I had one of the most fascinating, puzzling, vivid and unsettling dreams I’ve ever had. I had been married to my then wife, now ex-wife for less than 8 months, and so the themes in my dream, as you will learn, were quite troubling to me. I recorded my retelling of the dream on my way to work one rainy morning, and I set it aside. It was a strangely beautiful story, complete in its own right. I’ve been wanting to try my hand at writing again, and I just remembered that I had tucked away this idea. What follows is a rough draft of this oddly timely, slightly prophetic, poetic dream, written December 2015.
If you glimpsed something so perfect, would you give up your life for the promise of holding it once more?
Continue reading “The Waiting Girl, or A Throwback To The First Thing I Wrote In Years Back In December 2015”
I’ve actually lived in my current town for a grand total of 5 months, three of which I was wallowing in some serious post-divorce feels. I have some nice coworkers, but I still haven’t really found my people.
So here I am, faced with several weeks of no work and no idea what the hell to do.
So tonight, I decided to conduct…an experiment.
Continue reading “On Going Out Alone, or The Wordvomit I Wrote While Sitting Alone At A Bar”
Panel from Red On Maroon Mural (1959) by Mark Rothko (via)
Last night, I attended a performance of the John Logan play RED produced at my place of employment.
It’s a fascinating play featuring dialogue about art, philosophy, and life through the lens of the artist Mark Rothko in the late 1950s.
I was especially struck by a line that Rothko said when he was asked about how he felt about sending his art out into the world.
“Selling a picture is like sending a blind child into a room full of razor blades. It’s going to get hurt and it’s never been hurt before, it doesn’t know what hurt is.”
–Rothko, in the play RED by John Logan
This was such an apt description of the vulnerability of being an artist, and the tenuous release of one’s work into the cruel world of critique and opinions.
Continue reading “On the Vulnerability of Being An Artist, or Oh Goodness I Hope I Have Something People Actually Want To Read”