Creative explosions (or candle flames)

Ever wary of the frighteningly swift passage of time (and my misuse of it!), I often scold myself for not producing enough artwork or otherwise doing enough creatively stimulating things, including reading. I tend to feel guilty when someone says "You should read some of Mike's poetry" or "Mike's an awesome artist!" when, truthfully, Mike's not writing very much poetry or doing much art most of the time. Unless I'm actually producing artwork regularly, I am uncomfortable with being called an artist; "a person who occasionally turns out some really good drawings" is more appropriate (although I suppose that's pretty convoluted). Fortunately, I did find some time in the past seven days to be creative. Granted, this creativity stemmed from my responsibility to complete a commissioned work--to be given by a friend of mine as a Christmas gift to his girlfriend--and my earlier procrastination in avoidance of starting the drawing.

Last Sunday was one of those rare days when I had absolutely no obligations: nobody to work for, no pressing chores, no appointments. I should have started my friend's drawing, due Wednesday, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I sat around all day long in my pajama pants, barefoot and shirtless, editing photos on my computer, drinking coffee, and savoring the incense burning in the study/library where my lovely reptiles lounge in tanks dreaming of crickets (Luna) and twitching pinky rats (the snake gang). Out of the blue, it occurred to me that I should do something to immortalize the leftover roses arranged in the dining room and living room before tossing them in the compost. I grabbed the camera and tripod, headed outside before dark, and started playing around in the garden bed. This is Rose Wake, so named for its allusion to a funerary gathering:

On Monday night, I mustered a bit of discipline and got started on Daryl's drawing. As with almost every artistic project that I embark on, the beginning--the intimidation of a blank page and no definitive vision or sense of direction--was a lonely emotional battleground. Yet, as with almost every project that came before, a vision developed as the page took on color and geometric composition; my confidence grew; my singular determination to stick with the art, to see it through to completion, developed into excitement and experimental possibility. As the drawing came alive, my muse stretched her limbs, chanted three Aums channeling the vibrations of the universe, and struck some pretty phenomenal yoga poses. On Tuesday night, the drawing was finished and celebrated with a one-man spiced rum toast.

Later today, I'm going to head over to the 61C Cafe on Murray Avenue and prepare some of my Christmas cards while sipping coffee (like I need more of that!) and hopefully feeling a little hip among all the hipsters and academic types who often populate the 61C. This week, I promise myself to work on a poem--a little epic about a solitary World War II American flying ace in France that I've been meaning to write since September. I'll start reading Kurt Vonnegut's The Sirens of Titan after having just finished Mother Night. With enough discipline and motivation, I'll do at least one oil painting between Christmas and New Year's Day. Wish me luck!