I am sitting in my studio on a thursday morning, this new year's day 2009, watching the rain dribble down on the remains of the big blizzard of 2008. I've been hesitating to write for weeks, wanting to give my muse a break, and feeling a bit shy of this public broadcast of my used-to-be journaled, private thoughts. But I want to start making things: objects and images, and I feel this need to pour out the words that might be clogging up the pipes.
I had this sense that I am waking up from a long sleep. It's true that it's not the first time this has happened, but right now it is profound. My dreams refer to this, as does the way that impressions of the world are hitting me, cracking habitual patterns of response, and making me pause.
I think this might happen when people finish books, or when changes push one's expectations into new realms. Or maybe it's the pull of the planets. I honestly don't know.
Ah, but I sense I am being too abstract here. I am looking out the window at lush, thick moss coating an old snag and I feel some sort of identification with it - like there are seeds hiding in this old bark just waiting for the right climate to sprout.
There's more to say...but my fingers are growing restless for something other than keypads...to be continued.