Tuesday, July 10, 2012

It's a Scary Place In Here

I think in artsy little pictures and video. Definitively abstract. Someday I will begin to make real art installations out of them. I don't know who will buy them. I don't know what I would even do with them. I have a dream of entering one into Art Prize. I don't even want to compete to win anything because I know for sure that it wouldn't BUT just to have one. Done. Finished. Out. It would be amazing feeling to stand back and see a piece of my head and heart out there for everyone to see.

I feel like when I am emotional about something words fail me... and then these little videos in my head start rolling.

When I think about our dream of getting land, going off grid (or net zero, whatever the cool kids are calling it these days), and growing our own food, etc I picture myself standing in a wheat field (no, I don't want to grow wheat) with my {long} hair flying madly around myself in the wind. I picture my feet planted firmly on the ground. I picture roots growing out of my feet and going straight, deep down into the soil. I picture it in a weird fast forward type of video with all kinds of weather/season patterns... and I progress from a 20-something into an old, wrinkly lady.

When we have a set-back in our marriage I picture an oozy sore. I picture a finger picking at the sore so that it can't scab over. That it gets super close and you think, "YES! THERE IT GOES!" The thin, wet, weird skin that covers the sore starts to turn hard and ALMOST covers the entire thing... but then gets ripped right back off. {we are okay, incase you read into this that we aren't.}

When I think about how much I love my kids I picture my kids standing in front of me. I picture them growing fast while my arms are completely surrounding them--around and around like a rope {not around their necks... sheesh, I'm not crazy}. I picture my heart as a literal three dimensional heart that swells and then bursts with red balloon fragments falling all over.... each turning into a heart on it's own, swelling and then popping again. And it all sounds like fireworks; happy, happy fireworks.

When I think about remembering who I am outside of being a mother or a wife... who I am at my core. I see static. Some of those static lines randomly color for a split second. Intermittent loud noises that sound like party poppers.  With a series of split second images of a dirt road, corn fields, art easel, a brain, hands, windows down in a fast car, a head tipping back in laughter. Whether that's accurate or not, I don't know. I'm the heroine of my own little story, as is everyone else.

I wish I could translate some of these into poems or something more portable than my brain or even an ginormous art piece.


Sometimes I feel like if I don't have a way to let out some creativity it all just kind of festers in there and makes me feel {figuratively} constipated. And that never feels good.

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