First draft (Second draft)
There are days when responsibilities in my life seem to anchor me, tethering me like a leash. I read an article recently about a recent resurgence of mural artistry in a part of downtown Dallas called Deep Ellum. I haven’t explored the area in years. The last time I explored the sights and sounds of Deep Ellum was at the turn of this century. I took photos. Will try to include some with this blog post, but (if I do, which btw i didn’t) they will be pictures taken with my cellphone of pictures taken with my exe’s camera (twenty years ago that I put in a photo album). In fact, I’m writing this (first draft) on a pocket note pad as I don’t have access to my phone at the moment. Long story. Doesn’t matter. Like i said, some days, life responsibilities feel very restricting, and I must find ways to work around them.
I can’t control when I get creative. When I get an impulse. I have not felt truly inspired in a good long while. My life is in a rut, but I like to tell myself it’s a good rut. It’s not, of course. There are no good ruts. Like a worn sweater or sneakers that have seen better days, you put off replacing them even after holes form, because you’ve grown accustomed to their place in your life. After awhile tho, the discomfort overtakes the comfort, and one is forced to make an unpleasant change (allegedly) for the better. I don’t know if I’m there yet, but soon I’m probably gonna find out. It’s just that when I get creative impulses nowadays, it’s often when I’m addressing other people’s creative impulses (and I have to set mine aside). And yes,
I’m intentionally being vague, but what puts food on my table has rarely ever been what inspires me creatively. There’s not a lot of money in art for art’s sake. There is even less money in critical discernment and appreciation for other people’s art. Or rather, if there is, I never found it. Guess I’m just not good enough. However, abotu twenty years ago I remember visiting Deep Ellum with friends a few times, and alone a few times, and I enjoyed those excursions. The first draft of this blog post was written by (beside) a computer, but (it was) not mine (I had to get these words out using a pen and paper, in hopes I could transcribe later. which is what I’m doing now by the way. these parentheticals were intentionally added in the second draft). Part of my brain is dutifully accommodating the creative impulses of others, but deep within me is a small child whose hands are covered in finger paints and his
face is pushed against the glass to a window across the room from me. He wants to go outside. he wants to rush across town and go see Deep Ellum and listen by doors hoping for new music and old music and I would remind him that right now it’s raining, but I know he does not care. I need to get out of this building and go walk around other buildings and observe what other ppl have done to these buildings with their creativity. I want to document these murals, and compare them to photographs I took decades ago, before I owned a cellphone. Before I got the divorce. Before my parents died. Before Nine Eleven. Before my world got bigger and smaller at the same time.
…I need to get out of here. There’s still hours to go before my inner child can run and play (that time has still as of this second draft, not yet come. Watch this space.).