Monday, June 28, 2010

The Muse

Brother T,

I'm watching you, on a cold but sunny day, skipping rocks. The date stamp on the video is this past April. April - it was cold, wasn't it? But it was also beautiful in April.

I was never able to skip rocks. I always wanted to but something about the motion just doesn't mesh with me. I grew up in the country, but never spent time at the lake or around any body of water. I think its something you need to learn young, that you have to start training your body and mind at from a small age. I'm to old to learn to skip rocks.

Now your making cake. I remember that cake. I remember, as intoxicated as I was, that you asked me to take the first piece. I still have it, sitting on a shelf in my bedroom. My piece of birthday cake from arts birthday.

Those videos seem so long ago. They are what, five years ago? It's been a lifetime since then, I think.

We've had a crazy relationship, one that baffles me but also one that I value. We both know this. This city hasn't been the same since you moved away, since I became a mother, since life changed everything about who we both were back then.

It's fine, really. It's a progression. I was young then, when I first met you. I felt beyond my years, I know I acted like I was far more that I was. What the heck did I know? I was 26 years old then and I thought I knew it all. I knew nothing, nothing at all.

It pains me now, at times, to look back and see my naive personality. I knew much but I haven't lived. When I first met you, I was started to live this crazy, young adult life. It went beyond my time with you and went on until my son was born only a year and a half ago.

I wish I often had the Bates Book. I debate asking you to send it back so I can read it, work on it, get creative with it and then send it back to you. You pushed me creatively and that damn book showed me I could do these things, I could be an 'artist' of sorts, that I could provoke people and make them think.

Art is subjective, for someone like me. I don't feel I'm 'good' at it. I can't draw, I don't paint, I am unable to play any musical instrument and my writing, as of late, has been weak at best. I lack motivation. But when I had you in my life, it was a constant. I never doubted my artistic outputs and I pushed myself so fucking hard.

What now? What's happened? I use my son as an excuse as to why I don't write as much as I should. What is my excuse for that writing being crappy once I do finally take the time to sit down and pound something out? I'm at fault, really, for being so out of practice. I made a pact to myself a while ago to write EVERY day, to carry my journal around with me always, like I used to. Do you think I have done that once since I made the pact?

I keep re-making that pact, telling myself to just get on the wagon again, start over. Bring that journal with me everywhere. Take the time to write in it, or to blog, or to create something written. To be truthful, I'm removed from the art world. I'm still here, I'm lurking. My 'fame' has kept me in some circles, has allowed me to do things and go places that I need, but I'm not putting anything out there anymore and I need to change that.

Sure, you would argue my show is a creative outlet, but to me, I've even let that slide a bit at times. I'm in a constant state of adjustment these days.

Fuck it. I need to regress a little bit, retake my writing vow and remember how much I created when I first met you. I always felt this need to bring something artist and created to the table whenever I saw you, but I also knew if I didn't bring it, or if I was lacking in anyway, you would never make me feel bad about it.

Remember that night you wanted to take those swords out on the king street and have me film you swinging them around outside the Pub? As drunk as I was, common sense kicked in and I said no way. You never made me feel like a goody-two-shoes, or anything less than your equal. For that I love you.

I miss you, Brother.