From the start, let me say : am doing quite well, relatively happy, doing well at work(finding wrk more "fun" than "just-a-job"). 1 question still wanders relentlessly across my mind: outside wrk, just what am I? During my previously mentioned private-duty job, Mr "R" asked what I do for fun when not at wrk. Hell, I struggled to come up with an answer - umm, well, SHIT...nothing really. Upon reflection of this simple question, I find myself doubting my self- worth, staring blankly into a void. For many years was probably "clinically depressed"; fortunately overcame that dark abyss, was on the road to living again. Just me and my muts, but now I wonder. To live for work only, is no life to live. I used to be fun, an interesting twist - if not the life of the party. Just where did I loose that part of me? Did depression become a crutch for me? Off, I ran, to grand adventures in foreign lands for fun. For 3 weeks i felt free, what now, I ponder, do i do with the other 49 weeks of the year? Blank canvasses & colored pencils yet unused, a bow-flex wt sys collecting cobwebs; fears not yet addressed perhaps. Dark places I have climbed out of, to find myself still unamused. Dancing drunk with friends, but a temporary respite of the bored (emergency fall-back plan). Although I know, am damn good at redirecting sun-downing confusion, attention-seeking behaviors, the game I play till myself insane, crossing lines - unseen, legal, logical, ideological. My compulsion to write does over-ride the urge to pigment play. In days of yesteryear: wet clay in hand, Prussian blue, Tiffany stained textured hues, from my hands the story told. Something new? Something skewed? A vision used to others' end. Stolen, slashed, ridiculed, frozen cracked, and burned; till back again, felt i was to blame - my creations created nothing but pain, tho pain caused the creations. Studied hard, and disowned for the degree I earned in pain. No Doctor, No Lawyer,m No Priest, I became...in painful defeat, became a nurse - just an LPN, in demented land, again the irony does not escape me. Tried to put the pigments down to my past, no such luck...in verbosity my fingers type, in tangled tangents rant, in a solitary moment; my soul does ache to express the sculptured canvass images that my soul refuses to give hold of. My thoughts, I can well hide obfuscated in bad rhymes, and confusion's dance. Why is it, that in the other 49 weeks of the year I can struggle frightful, to come near the blank canvass Depression no longer a valid argument, rose above that...to find myself utterly boring, utterly useless to life in general, has depression become such a crutch that I can't live without it? Rhetorical question, in the asking and the action of writing it, am answering my own question. Am damn good at living demented lost, now to overcome the painful past and dare to put to the test, the textured painted sculpted canvass - of the screaming images in my head. Dare I be, the artist no one wants ME TO BE? Overcame depression, to find my self staring me in the face. Writing now (and blogging my thoughts) to release my nervous anxiety, answering my own question, of what it is I need to do. 3 things : locusts, 47, and a naked Mary....of these I know the images in my soul burned. My technique unique, if depression's darkness i could overcome, then fear of the blank canvass I can surely overcome. 49 weeks now i challenge myself - get my ass in gear, put pencil to paper, sketch the burning images. Rambling to myself, to recapture what once i knew...a textured image new, technique in need of refinement (too long lost in paralyzing fear), tell the story in textured images confused...the dark abyss lived for to long, let go my crutch of living in depression, fear not what images i have now to tell, just strip myself naked, and in the 49 weeks put to paper, the images that I have lived, without fear. Words, too easily edited, true feelings lost in obfuscated rhyming edits, but the painted image story i can hide from view, till I decide to let be viewed. Get another drink, try to convince myself, wrestle my own demon fears; from the dark abyss - this is where I now am - coaching myself to do what it is that I know what i SHOULD do. Writing for myself rather than to make a point to others who may read, more as a reminder to myself than words of wisdom to others. My canvass name: Paradox Parrot.... remember that, someday that name will be famous! Vangoghsear - my pen name - well, who knows, perhaps my struggles will be a best seller! Just rambling to release anxiety and "hear" my own thoughts. To the Internet winds I spew my thoughts, the echoes back I listen to. Myself to argue against? Right or Wrong, in confusion and in momentary clarity, at which point do I achieve? Flights of fancy or the documented demented course. Just which one of myself do choose to achieve? The dirty vision, or the documented dirt. Home I go, no rest i find, colored visions scream to be. 49 weeks of the year was lost, 3 weeks I ran to be, just who am I, in the other 49 weeks?
A question, mine alone to answer,and while i try to find the answer, color flashes, logic defiled, pigment plays me a fool, resistance useless, my every thought and action tainted in colored images - some comically and ironically connected, others, just so out of bounds, the funny point was lost on all but me. Life was once only dark, now a palette of so many colors, either way...finding it all so confusing, and so few who see the subtle colors I see. Standing above the dark abyss, blinded by the bright beyond, wondering where now to step? Do I see the secret path, or do I tread the tried and trite? All the while, a blank canvass yells at me. For 49 weeks - I'm struggling to find my compass, for 3 Weeks I'm free to roam. Shit, damn, for the other 49 weeks, seems I'm doomed to contemplate my existence and the reason for existence of others! Just ramblimbling, uninhibited.