Artless

What does it take, to make art? I grew up in a family of Artists, the true kind, the ones that others would look on and note their talents. Formally. They are all so very legit in their Artist-ness.

As for me, I have never felt that I merited the label, or the capital A on the front end. My painting skills are fractional, I can't recite a line or act my way out of a paper bag, I sing only when I can avoid feeling watched and heard. And yet I have chosen to make word-art of a sort from that which grinds into me, the small pains of life as well as the ones that are overwhelming and show-stopping (but are impressively inconsequential in the grand scheme). These words seep out between the awkward silences that have lengthened from months into lifetimes, from the footprints I pad into sandy or rocky soil in my travels. From the ruins of my reckless ways and the beauty that surrounds each step taken on this lifeline. I allow the words to spill, at times blindly and without thought for those who may read themselves into my plotlines. I push the publish button hastily, as if getting it out on the ether-webs has an urgency. As if I might rid myself of my limitations and failings if I click fast.  I am painting pictures with the mass of raw words that gurgle up to meet my sense of things. To make sense of the stuff that does not. I divest myself of the responsibility and hard work of letting go by simply releasing another slew of text. Hoping to create something intricate and marbled and a bit indecipherable, meant for one and for all.

Beyond me, my musings may take on meanings known only to each reader. Like letters found years after the writing, unsent, bound up with string, and tucked away in a box in the attic. A cowards craft. Like posters pasted on neighbourhood lampposts, they are indirect, and undirected. The craft of the unrequited. Free for any who would read, perhaps never truly hitting the desired mark, but hitting many unintended ones.

Maybe I have wielded this virtual pen like a weapon, or have used it like some impetuous kid denied, throwing myself on the ground and kicking my feet in an articulated tantrum. Screaming at trees.  Seeking some way at least to be heard.