Today.
I want to make art. I have time.
Walk and take photographs.
Paint.
Flat efforts.
Tidy working space.
Look at my art.
Tidy living space.
Look at other people’s art.
Read about other people’s art.
That’s what that’s about?
Look up the word oeuvre.
That’s a big word.
Not in size. In meaning.
Read poetry.
Read more poetry.
Organize poetry collection.
Stumble upon rich quote.
Laughter and gaiety.
Thinking, thinking.
Feed the cats, and find comfort in the
familiar.
See the daylight begin to fade.
Realize what it’s about for me.
Make a list of words.
A map for my work.
It’s all ok.
I kind of know what I am saying.
I am exploring, seeking, finding.
Choosing. Integrating. Releasing.
Look up the word imbue.
That one will work.
I’ve found the door to get
back in
my art.
The poem:
On Becoming the Poet You Were Meant to Become
(note to self)
Many poets are not poets
for the same reason that
many religious men are not saints:
they never succeed in being themselves.
They never get around to being the particular poet
or the particular monk they are intended to be by God.
They never become the man or the artist who is called
for by all the circumstances of their individual lives.
They waste their years in vain efforts
to be some other poet, some other saint…
They wear out their minds and bodies in a hopeless endeavor
to have somebody else's experiences or write somebody else's poems.
There is intense egoism in following everybody else.
People are in a hurry to magnify themselves
by imitating what is popular—
too lazy to think of anything better.
~Thomas Merton
The quote:
I tell you, we are here on Earth
to fart around, and don't let
anyone tell you any differently.
~Kurt Vonneget
They mean the same thing.
