I see the tree seeing me.
I finally gave in and woke up at 7am, far too early for a Sunday morning, came into my studio, sat and my desk and started writing. The only problem is, non of it can be used.
No, they tell me I have to write about time again, instead. I can never write about time again. I feel like Harper Lee after she wrote To Kill a Mockingbird and shut her doors and said she had nothing else to say. Isn't that how I felt in Ojai, though? I remember driving through the mountains in the middle of the night screaming and crying and recording myself as I wailed, "I have nothing to say." I was hoping maybe it would turn into a performance, truth translated into truth through art again and back to itself. There we go. That self-reflexive loop again.
In Ojai, I was trapped inside the white cube that the center is. A beautiful, magical white cube set in a powerful, spiritual landscape - but a white cube, nonetheless. I was trapped inside an object market. I should have reminded them that I don't make objects, I don't make things that can be sold. I think I came to school so that I could learn to paint so that I'd have something for them to sell. I should have told them, I've changed, I don't make paintings anymore, I make moments, small, terrifying, powerful moments. They exist, and then they are over. That's what I'm here to do, too. Make those moments again. Fill myself up, plant myself full of seeds so that I can grow those moments and maybe here, have an audience to give them to. Marina talks about cleaning out, I think it's more like filling up.
I make no objects. I make some objects. I make a little objects now and then.
I am objectless.
Pretty soon, in a little less than a month, I'm going to be telling them all what I think. It's not as glamorous as it sounds. I'm going to have to really open, to really cease to be secretive, to really, truly, really, stand by what I say and who I am.
You. Make Me. Promises, promises. No more hiding, mi amour.
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