Truth; one cannot escape one’s essential self: The artist exposing a celf

Something I have been hiding....

I am to see another surgeon in a few days. I have been running out of .... belief

there have been so many ....



Since Jörn says I need to expose myself more as an artist and when I write....

as an artist

he says that the best art is born of heartbreak and pain

How can I find these words....?

so.... you see, there is so much I hold inside and so.... physically to immerse myself with a physical medium like visual art

tactile

as a dyslexic— I suppose I am exposing myself now, aren’t I? is this what Jörn meant I should do— and why do I need to please him?

no, I respect his opinion, that is why

You see, dyslexics think in pictures —not actual words ....at least the kind I am— so.... painting has been my place to say something that I’ve not yet found the words to mean the thoughts and feelings

my writing lately .... since I’ve not been able to paint nor draw nor even scribble even a list of words.... onto a sheet of paper

there is a kind of.... disjointed and —even a paralysis in the synapse .... do we want to get analytical here....? well— perhaps it is time

to come clean about why I ever developed this style of expression.... I’ve researched a great deal as it is a kind of nervous obsession of mine to have to plunder deeply into any subject that captures my attention and, well, I’ve discovered from years of reading on these subjects that a lot of data points to a connection between my form of a dyslexic is actually a form of autism

Dr. Rothschild helped me to understand how I became this awkward individual that I am; how a dyslexic should become someone, for instance, who reads all the time

it is quite crazy, actually—because dyslexics don’t actually read. No, we translate everything as we go into pictures because we don’t actually see the words. They move around and turn inside out, go upside down and distract.... as it turns out, I am also hyperactive and have attention deficit disorder so I never keep still, I make people crazy because I am always moving around and tapping things; I hardly pay attention yet I understand everything being said but I’m also thinking a million different thoughts that keep me otherwise occupied

Dr. Rothschild told me that the reason, according to her background knowledge and her assessment of me —she said since the brain does not fully develop until after infancy and even then not fully till about 20– the physical abuse I received as a child, as it was a regular and daily practice— it caused the chemistry of my brain to develop differently. So, my synapses are off. Brain chemistry also impacts emotions besides everything else

I have understood this from my years of work with her in our sessions; she was possibly my most influential role model besides my writing teachers at school and Dr. de Wit, my philosophy teacher

I learned to draw before I talked, you see.... they thought I was a mute because I did not speak a word until I was about three .... and then a full sentence all at once

My grandfather and mother were both amazing artists and I’d spend hours of my time beside them watching and learning and having my pencil removed from my fingers to be corrected over and over

always.... of course, my perspective was off and— I visually cannot see depth so, my depth perception is never even there in any of my work; sometimes in graphite I am a bit better as it then becomes more of a sculptor to me and I work better with clay but I like pictures

I don’t actually think I like shadows because of how they remind me of darkness. Unfortunately, I trip a lot because I don’t notice important things like steps or curbs, tend to walk into walls too, oddly, but I think that is more about that I’m usually deep in thought

I have just demonstrated here how much of a person with ADD I am, so, there it is.... thank goodness this is a diary format and not an actual novel but the point I am reaching to define is


without the physical immersion with paint to express

I have become disjointed

my writing is disjointed and my thoughts are as well; but we adapt, don’t we? What else is there to do but work with the things you have but it’s created more roadblocks.... and already this road is paved on breadcrumbs long ago scattered

these abbreviations of words strung together

without punctuation

sometimes even without rhythm

reason?

well, the codes have become all that has remained

Remember “wave girl” my painting of the mermaid with legs who has dug out her guts with the overwhelming wave that washes over her; drowning her

Do you know how often I stared at that painting after I lost custody of my daughter.... after my parents died and never offered me a word of closure.... if you look closely you can see the Goddess within her as she is bent over

and a dragon in the sky

these are symbols and they are the diary; the dictionary.... faith; purpose.... worship and even more than all these things  —assuagement

just like the girl painting her toe nails, which I never could finish as I ran out of white oil paint—her finger is a different color but that was part of the painting’s meaning; it was irony and s personal joke to me. Symbolic because as she tries to perfect her grooming, her skin’s color remains unfinished

every painting I have ever done is —to me— something deeper

the hours spent mixing the colors and waiting for the layers to dry; making the brushstrokes disappear and the balance of holding your breath to get it the way you see it.... sometimes you are the passenger as it creates itself for you

like the horse in the water

it “appeared” to me

so.... they are all pilgrimages to me

I destroyed my last mural before it was complete as my hands had begun to fail

no longer able to hold a brush.....

when though does the bough break?

I accept these lessons of loss but you see, my last mural was of Demeter mourning the loss of   Persephone

It was eight feet long and four feet high and I gessoed it for a week before I started, using an entire bucket

I think of Renoir and Matisse, both artists hampered physically by their health; both challenged and so, I know that an artist is and must be.... an artist is not an occupation nor a degree —one is born an artist; it is how we think and see life; how we experience it and interpret it and it is inconsequential whether or not it is considered valid or relevant by the art critics

An artist cannot stop being an artist if this is who they really are even if the ability to perform the conventional work has been interrupted

but the need to express it becomes a kind of madness if it must be contained only within the cerebral concept

It must be ..... or go mad

which, lately, I truly fear has occurred and taken a firm hold .... a madness that destroys itself as it caves within its own walls

How is this for honesty? am I exposing myself enough for Jörn, or must I create a symphony?

I fear the surgeon may not be encouraging and so, what then —what.... if I cannot even switch on a light switch .... use am I at all

Some unfinished business; Past and Present overlap

There is such a need to run away

but I have come to see

I’m running from something inside of me

——————————————

Quick notes from intermission:


Jörn says that I don’t expose enough of myself in my writing; that I hold back....maybe he thinks I am a coward....

my time away from Jörn I think about things he says, sometimes too bluntly but often things he says cut right to the crux with terrifying precision and so, therefore, hurt

sometimes it is too much so I have to run away but away

I have dreams of Raoul

   and dreams of [being] Elan

Gerald says it is unfinished business between soulmates who reincarnate —and meet again....  I don’t know what I think unless maybe Jörn does carry some guilt only I don’t understand what it means in connection to ....myself —or Elan, unless it is I am too obtuse, once again, to see the obvious

But the strange reoccurrence of these dreams seems to be more haunting when I am away from him

It becomes a kind of panic
————————————————

It is crowded when I get backstage by our usual spot and I think it is someone’s birthday

I consider hiding in some corner .....and texting Jörn

because I don’t like crowds .... and I’m not so good with people because I can’t fake smiles or make up mindless conversations —it gives me anxiety and so ....

 I start to search for the washrooms to hide but then I stumble and slam right into someone head first —and yes, very hard

I realize it is Jörn by his gutted exclamation of pain

He steadies me as our collision nearly sends me to the floor, taking me by the shoulders and extracting me from his abdomen, “I knew you’d come tonight.”

“All these people!” I say

He looks around us and then pulls me to come with him

The Voyeur; jm muse chronicles

at first it was his walk ....and then it was his eyes

I think of this now watching him from the balcony. He sits among the orchestra but I only notice him. Tonight it is the cello so I wonder who is ill or gone away I think I like the way he plays this more; how he holds it like a lover, especially for Eroica; I am his voyeur. I watch his fingers and even from up in the balcony, I see the way he lays his fingers.... for one so tall and physically strong, to see the shocking gentleness in the way he touches, I find, leaves me stunned by this devastation

It is by the end that he glances up from his bow to look at me and I realize he always knew I was there even as I never said I was going to be here tonight

When he stands at the end with the other musicians to bow out he turns to me in a subtle way and does his last bow to me and with the smallest inclination of his head infers to meet him where we always meet backstage

[and so.... must go for now ~perhaps more of this later]

somewhere in the crowd; the rush for the man with the vampire eyes

Overwhelmed by the need to see Jörn I return to the city on impulse to make it in time for this evening’s performance ....

I stop by the penthouse and rush to change clothes

tonight it is Beethoven’s Eroica

and as I search the closet for something to wear, in a mad dash, I reach for the houndstooth sheath from Ann Taylor from that day a million years ago it now feels .... and don’t even hesitate to consider and step into the bow tie velvet ballet pumps

I grab a cab to Lincoln Center

I am still zipping up the back of the dress on the ride to the Philharmonic

Peace Frog*; Electra’s dictionary

Of misplaced keys; a celf locked out



somewhere at the core of me it feels some chain has broken

there is this quiet whisper there

and all the color gone gray

the inner chamber echoes empty sounds

     .....so
    what is there to do but

spend the afternoon in deep communion with an unlikely friend 

*Peace Frog is a reference to the song by The Doors

today

reflecting on dna memories

Sometimes when I’m walking or hiking .... I start to be aware of memories that come from the landscape and the feel of the earth under me. If I carry something heavy I feel it more. I feel the swing in my hips as I move over miles with the heat of the sun

my foot as it lands on the ground

the first memories of the pirate came in such a way

like footsteps over layers of time