“Can you remember who you were, before the world — Charles Bukowski *
told you who you should be?”
Hello, friends. ♡
Well, winter upped and left us sometime in July and I am buzzing from the early reprieve. A belt of westerly winds are blowing through the region, right on cue, but they’re somewhat temperate this year, unlike the usual polar-tinged blasts (yes, it gets cold in Australia!). I’m not complaining about the mildness – but without a deep shift in season, I have been wondering how anything turns.
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Lately I’ve been making things that frighten me. Often I am overcome by the urge to put projects away, instead of developing them further. Even the barest glimpse of possibility floods my gut with warmth and danger and I find myself enshrining ideas while they are still pure, in case they become sullied by poor realisation or failure.
The irony of this is that I am not a cautious person. I am easily dazzled, ravenous. I want to say yes to everything. Shove it all in my mouth, in my pockets. I want to do it all so much that I often end up by doing nothing at all. I hover in the nascent. That’s where my early drafts live – my hazy flights. They’re good if you squint and read every third word. I am so clever, if I don’t look too hard.
Being too self-aware as a creative can feel like being a metal spring – tightly wound, brimming with elastic potential, compressed against itself. When an idea is released, that potential becomes ecstatic, exhilarating motion. But it’s the verge of release that feels so unsettling and unnerving: moving from the idea, through the messy execution, and into the unknown. It can feel easier to cling to our old shape, until we realise that we’re not going anywhere.
I read somewhere that the child that learns to hide, becomes the artist who learns to hide her work. Those of us who grew up reading the room, ended up by creating what the room expected. It takes courage to make something wholly yours, when you’ve learned that your worth (and often, your survival) depends on how good it is, or whether or not others approve of it.
So, this month I've started to hone my craft and harbour some audacity. Taking up space, even if it's just a square inch at a time. I'm approaching revision with self-compassion and curiosity, sending my rejected pieces back out instead of letting them rot in self-defeat. I'm curating an online space where I can make offerings with my hands and my heart, and I'm posting work where people can see it. I am expanding and attracting, as I move through the world stage at an excruciating pace. It takes courage to go up against your own mind. But oh, the reward.
Maybe it’s laughably simple. Maybe the whole reason for my melancholy is that I am utterly in love with the idea of this life and the enormity of that swallows me whole. A little enamoured, a little in awe. Standing in the face of the sublime – both fascinated and afraid.
What a time to be alive.
Hope you’re all having a beautiful week. x
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What I loved this month: this post, this song (not necessarily a fan, but I am kind of obsessed?), this deeply honest piece about artist burnout, this intriguing heart-shaped pareidolia, this piece about growth and resistance (same brain, Duane!) (#thatrhymes), this study on the effects of rose oil and brain matter, hanging out at this local bakehouse, which I am convinced is run by witches, this marvellous poem by Jane Kenyon.
* Epigraph note: This quote is often attributed to Charles Bukowski - it’s a bit apocryphal but I like it. Sorry Buks.
A Certain Slant is a collection of micro-essays, occasional letters and a visual diary about the human experience, the stories we inherit and the spaces between them. If you’ve found something worthwhile in these posts and would like access to the full archive (or to simply pay it forward for a little while), US$/€ 3 a month makes a difference, and would mean a lot to me. ♡
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