The Sensibilities of Time

Yes.

It has been nine months.

No, I did not have a child.

I've never actually thought of my absence in those terms and it's strange now to consider that idea. My tokophobia aside- it's a good thought to revisit in order to battle procrastination. In my mind I'm still stuck in July, but the idea of being able to conceive and give birth to a tiny human being in the same reference of time now only makes me feel slightly incompetent and lazy. Think of all the piles of words I could have been nurturing in that same space. In that same vicinity of nurturing soon-to-be-mothers.

That's not to say I've been huddled up watching Law and Order SVU marathons for 273 days straight (although I'd be a liar if I didn't admit I was becoming dangerously close to that number). In nine months I've gone through just as many jobs and (probably) just as many failed romances. I've battled through a flood and have been sleeping in make-shift homes (a.k.a. office floors) for the last six months. I've fought off tonsillitis four separate times and am currently working on healing my first sprained ankle. I've traveled to seven separate states and to five different countries (two of them for the first time). I've turned a different age. I'm finishing up my second semester of the MFA (creative writing) graduate program at CCNY. What else did I leave out?

It doesn't matter. It's been a tough few months. It's been tough ever since I left my adventure abroad to return to America. That was in the winter of 2012. But that's often the way it goes, doesn't it?

Sometimes...often...I spend too much time battling the most epic of guilt trips over not accomplishing as much as I know I am either capable of or as much that I feel (or know) I am suppose to be doing within my lifespan. Yes, on paper it looks like I've been a cluster-fuck of busyness and my terrible health these past few months can attest to how I've maxed out my capacity for living the way I have been...but I am a stubborn person with a much-too-aware mindset and I have been trained to be this beast of a warrior. Or at least that's what I tell myself. I need to reclaim my thoughts. I need to DO. What I end up doing though is tripping over raised lips in the cement. I'm looking high to the sky and instead I keep falling on my face. Oftentimes literally.

I've been busy trying to live, yes.
I've been busy trying to find the right space I'm suppose to be in, yes.
I've been busy trying to not feel guilty about not being as busy as I'm 'suppose' to be, yes.
I've been busy trying to feel okay with what it is I am, who it is I am, and who it is people think I am, yes. I've been busy.

I've been spending many evenings hiding in places.
I've been spending many evenings biding time until the sun rises.
I've been spending many evenings in different places not called home.

When I do venture off to the places that were once called home I look at the ideas I've had written down on post-it notes. I look at the reminders I have left for myself. They sit by quietly informing no one of future projects. I look at all of my unfinished work.

In the midst of all of these half-written ideas, projects, paintings, drawings, and assignments there is this one image that is looming over amongst all of the others. It is the only thing of mine that appears to be complete.

A Tribal Bird?

                                                                                               
I would estimate that I was about eleven or twelve when this piece was created judging from the archaic cursive of my signature. Perhaps even younger. There is no title. There is no prompt written off to the side (Assignment: Draw Your Nightmare!). There are no clues to help specify if this was a product of a rainy day at home or if it was from an elementary art class. I have no recollection of this piece, but it is clear that it is a product of my imagination.

It fascinates me. It is a strange feeling to come into contact, after many years, with a small piece of yourself now long forgotten. If somebody had handed me this image and said "Look, I made this back when I was six years old!" I probably wouldn't fight them on the issue. Who am I to refute somebody's claims of ownership? Without my signature how would I know if it was truly mine?

I'll title it now as Tribal Bird because something about this piece appears derived from some imaginary tribal clan. 

I think of the Rainforest.
 Of Africa.
 Of small cannibalistic islands.

I was obsessed with these images as a child. I wanted to swing from treetops. I wanted to explore the depths of caves. I wanted to climb up high peaks until the oxygen ran out. I craved the unfamiliar. I don't particularly recall a fascination with birds per se and I'm not even sure if what I was attempting to create was bird-influenced...but, the name Tribal Bird seems to work.

In examining Tribal Bird I was inspired to examine another piece of artwork. It is the only other piece not hidden underneath boxes of papers. It is also, like Tribal Bird, in plain sight. In scanning the front side of this new piece I discovered a hidden drawing on the backside. I had forgotten that this even existed on the other side of the paper.

An Invisible Bird?

                                                                       
I faintly recall this draft. About five or six years ago I was inspired to start creating things again. I wanted to draw, paint, collage. I wanted to do it all and I knew if I were to ever branch away from my typical templates of lines and triangles I would have to start practicing. I wanted to draw an owl, but instead created this. Frustrated at not being able to map out on paper what I had so clearly envisioned in my imagination I quickly gave up and started a new draft on the other side.

Looking at this now I don't particularly mind it. I'd go as far to say that this is, in fact, a complete creation. Something about it has a strange and masculine aura. His personality seems hard-headed and stubborn. He seems to personify what I recalled feeling when trying to create him.

And again, this fascination with the winged creatures of flight escapes me. I do not recall the source of inspiration. I've never considered myself a bird person. 

On the other side of Invisible Bird was this.

A Time Bird?

I began by wanting to draw the profile of the owl I was still inspired to depict. Quickly the lack of my abilities began to show and, again, I grew frustrated. I decided to stick with what I knew. I decided to stick with what I felt comfortable with.

Lines and angles.
Triangles and squares.

I said to myself 'FUCK THE DETAILS. I just want to paint.' As much as I wanted to break the rules, experiment, and mess up while learning something new I was still resistant to actually making the first step towards that process. I didn't want to waste my efforts. I grew lethargic and put the drawing away for a night.

I returned to the piece on my second session wanting to complete the filling in of colors. I wanted to fill in all of the white space. I started to add the maroon and gold. My hand grew tired and I put the piece away again for a night.

The next time I returned to my make-shift owl I was already over the entire project. It felt as if it wasn't working for me. In a frustrated panic I wrote TIME on the bottom. It seemed that time kept getting the best of me. I was aware that I was allowing time to beat me down. I was too aware of it. I felt as if there wasn't enough time to become better at this game. There wasn't enough time to paint this creation. There wasn't enough time to complete it. Why would I think that I could?

I was going to paint the background green. I began paying close attention to each brush stroke and I noticed that each brush stroke just did not feel good enough. It all just felt like a waste of time. I was micromanaging an assignment that was suppose to be loose and expressive, but instead of relaxing I gave myself a guilt trip for not focusing on my brush strokes when I was eight years old. I placed the painting to the side of my desk. I would catch up on some sleep and pick up from where I left off on another day. I'd continue when I didn't feel so uptight.

But that day never did come. It sat in the same spot for the next five or six years.

Examining it now I am left with the the same feeling as when I look at Invisible Bird. I wouldn't necessarily mind finishing what I originally had in mind...but something about Time Bird feels complete to me now. It has this almost dark humor surrounding it.

Of course the face won't get completed. 
Of course the green background will abruptly end before it can properly fill in the blank spaces. 
Of course. 

Because that's how time works. We don't get to choose how time will work for us at every moment in our lives. We can only try our best. And while I remember that I had different intentions when I began the owl project I believe I can now look at this finished product and feel satisfied that that may be as complete as it will ever get. I still created something out of nothing. It doesn't have to be perfect angles. It doesn't have to be composed of the perfect brush stroke.

Perhaps that's why Tribal Bird ended up getting fully colored in.

Now, to say I have issues coping with unreasonable guilt is an understatement. It is a feeling and a lifestyle I've been grappling with since I could think...since I could streamline timelines of memories.

But perhaps when I was younger I still had the strong sensibility that I would grow out of that cycle of regret. Perhaps I was hopeful that I could defeat my weaknesses. Perhaps back then I was working alongside Time instead of against it.

But it doesn't matter. All of those creations are still products of myself. So, if it takes me nine months to write 2,000 words or if it takes me two hours to write 2,000 words it is all still okay. This I need to remember. Sure, when I am at my peak of productivity I feel the loss of all of those wasted days, months, and years of when I was too caught up into myself to even pick up a pen, but to not acknowledge the words, drawings, and creations I am able to compose (albeit tiny into themselves) would be a far greater disservice. I need to remember that.

I forget that despite the lack of plays, short stories, novels, blog entries, etc, etc to my name I still am composing. I easily write twenty page e-mails in underneath an hour to anybody who will listen (or read). And sometimes I receive an overwhelming response to my words when I do. Recently, as a reminder to myself, I began writing down key critiques from others to myself in regards to my penned (or rather typed) words. I don't often sleep in that space where they are hanging anymore but when I do visit I now have to face a door full of reminders informing me that I need to stop living in fear of myself. I need to stop living in doubt of myself. I need to just be alive and to be okay.

And sometimes those reminders are all that I need.

"Don't think you're not a writer- I have a novels worth of words from you. It seems you're often in doubt of your abilities. Just reminding you that you have nothing to worry about." -M.S.