Works in progress

Although I refer to my sketches as 'works in progress' this is an inadequate description, as I never finish any of them anyway.  I seldom finish the pages in the sketchbooks either, I get a few from the end and start on a new one.  I'm not sure why I do this; possibly it's that I can't stand the finality of it all - the idea of finishing something and it not being perfect.  Empty pages can be returned to, built upon, altered.  They are fluid.  I put too much thought into these things

Terrible scan quality aside, I am somewhat pleased with the way things have been turning out lately.  I'm no artist, but I'm slowly learning that not being perfect is not a fault and that I don't have to be the world's best at something to enjoy it and find fulfillment.

The Secret Garden

I am currently watching The Secret Garden.  The memories of seeing this film as a child have shaped so much of my adult perceptions of romance and beauty, and watching it now has begun the process of corroding my long-standing creative block.  I was stuck with thinking that beauty for beauty's sake was frivolous, but something so simple can be so comforting and have substance far beyond my original expectations.  I always identified with Mary, planting lily bulbs in collared dresses, when really I am Colin, blooming far later, learning to walk and be independent from his illnesses and isolation.

sparks

I am raw and withering.  I don't sleep anymore.  Four of the last forty is not sufficient.  At seven this morning nothing could console me.  3 a.m. now is much the same.  I am flat; I don't even feel what's happening to me anymore.  I exist behind a pane of glass.  I can see everything sure enough, but I am not connected to it, not engaged, not alive alongside everyone else.  I don't even feel tired.