I am very very tired. So please excuse anything overly obvious I say or that I may ramble more than usual.
I have been working on this little loosely themed collection of erotic/explicit/literary stories. All flash sized, between 250-1000 words.
As I’ve been doing these I have all these um, let’s say academic flavored thoughts about the purpose of what I’m doing. About what I am playing with and exploring not because I think it’s commercially viable (as in publishable) but because I need to walk the land and see what’s going on.
I was listening to Junot Diaz speak (I KNOW I am kind of obsessed ok, listening to him talk about writing and reading is very soothing to me) and he said something about art and play and I had a boom holy shit moment.
This little nerdy thing I am doing is art.
This is my art.
For as much as I believe other writers make art, Remittance Girl, M. Christian, etc etc they make art. In my head everyone but me makes art and is an artist and that in my head is this big beautiful lofty thing.
It is a penultimate thing to me. The height of what makes me happy.
I haven’t ever been comfortable allowing myself to try and inhabit that place. the idea that I could be an artist or that anything I do writing, crocheting, photography etc could be art I get very anxious.
I feel nauseated and weird and generally like I am some fake ass dilettante or similar low rent poseur.
And then if I let myself think about it more I shut it down and tell myself to shut my shit mouth and get to work. I am a worker. I put my head down and get to it. I work/commute for 12 hours of my day and I go home and I fucking work.
Someone like me (poor, worker) can’t join the ranks of artists because in my head, artists are above. I am not up there.
I know that part of this is my upbringing, part of it is the depths of admiration I have for art. How much I value and respect everything I consider art.
I tell myself I can totally write and I can create and I am a creative person. I am a writer. Sometimes I think I’m a pretty good writer.
But I couldn’t consider anything I was doing art.
I wouldn’t say it.
I have had no problem personifying myself as the Rocky archetype or the laborer. I know that my roach brain survives I can work through everything (see me being so exhausted right now my hands are shaking but I’m at work) , My War by Black Flag is playing in my head. I am the Mother Fucker. I am a fucking Beast. I can’t be stopped.
Rawr. Flex. Be afraid.
the moment I think this is art, this is beautiful. I have a total fucking meltdown.
Okay so about a half hour ago or so I said to my best friend that my little dark end of limerence and playing with (fuck that word that starts with a J that I learned from Remittance Girl)- anyway this little thing I am doing is art.
it is my art.
It is me exploring these things. I am doing it.
Maybe because I am so tired, I don’t have the energy to put up the labyrinth in my head to let myself step out of the role I’ve assigned myself and just do my arty shit.
For me art does things. It hurts me, it makes me happy, it arouses me (yes sexually), it terrifies me, it makes me want to crap my pants, it makes me want to cry, it makes me think about it two weeks later, I want to talk about it and chew on it.
These stories do that for me and I want to share them. Maybe they will do it for someone else.
I am making art.
It feels so strange but I want it to be okay. I want to hold my head up point at something I’ve done and be able to proclaim my artiness. If only to myself.
This is a new adventure.
Under the fold here, have a bit of one of the new things I’m working on from the collection.
At another time I might ask some questions for all however many of you read this. But not today. today I just want to enjoy feeling arty.
Black wings, a flutter against my skull. I see you and can’t stop the thoughts. Is this mania? When I see the skin beneath your ear, all I can think about is how soft it is, how vulnerable. Teeth or blade? Kiss or bite?
Thoughts, bubbling like black water. Thoughts red and bloody.