A NOISELESS patient spider,
I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.
And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be form’d, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.
I am an artist. I am an artist who can produce no art. My command of shading is abysmal. It takes me hours to draw with a pencil the outline of one leaf. My photographs are conventional. I use too much paint. My characters of clay are kitschy and often follow a pattern. My albums, coasters, and other crafts lack uniformity. I can’t stay inside of the lines. I have no subtlety. I’m clumsy. My hands shake. I am full of flaws.
I have an artistic temperament, a personality that often feels detached, isolated, yet with a heightened ability to perceive and translate the world. I understand connections between things but lack the ability to reproduce them in a spatial, visual arrangement that will appeal to people. I have an active and detailed imagination, which I cannot seem to capture. As Jane Eyre says, “I was tormented by the contrast between my ideas and my handiwork: in each case I had imagined something which I was quite powerless to realise.” What can I do?!
I write. I create visions of the world through description. I make people see the connection using only my words. It is all I have. I write out my art.
So, too, do I write out my world. I have difficulty connecting in person, for reasons mental and social. I am personable, clever, and eager…which becomes clinging, arrogant, and overly keen. No subtlety. No attention to constraint. I take some getting used to, and large doses of me can be toxic.
I started this blog to understand myself through the mental unity that comes to me when I write. But it has become my “threads”. I fling posts out into the blogosphere, hoping to connect. Hoping…
UPDATE: Minus some of the more scatological humor, this is what it is like to be a writer…