"Tiger Tiger burning bright in the forest of the night - what immortal hand or eye can frame thy fearful symmetry?” Or something like that. Poetry was never my calling. Am I a chosen one? Has God chosen me or am I called? What is the difference? Called to what? If God sent out a calling what would be my answer? Surely I am to be an artist - it is all I ever wanted to be.
In class Mr H gave us an assignment - write about what makes you special. I immediately thought of art. I described loving to "destroy the whiteness of the page" as part of the start of my creative process. He thought the phrase was powerful. At the time I was reading Alan Watts. He was Buddhist just like my teacher. Mr H gave me a book to read "The Moon and Sixpence " by Somerset Maugham all about the artist Gauguin. It was a snow day that Monday so I was able to finish the book. I was inspired. This little suggestion referring me to this book started a fire within me - a fire of the beauty and wonder of books. Up until then I had only read a few books. Something in the magic of Maughams writing excited me greatly. I went to extra help with Mr H that Saturday. In his classroom there was an Asian scroll of a man meditating. You see him in his house. And you see him floating off into the distance over fog filled mountains.
I was interested in the power of the word, which is ironic for I used words so limitedly. Holed up in my room I would draw a multitude of monsters and superherose. Painfully shy I rarely said “Hello” if at all. I would have loved it if I could hide away in a mountain cave like St. Benedict.
The word held specific power for me. Books on Voodoo and Santeria began filling my shelves. The magic of the word became my passion and obsession. If I said the right words could I change reality? The thought intrigued me greatly.
In the basement I created a studio - the heat above was oppressive - only a little cooler in the basement. There I embarked the world of fantasy letting my mind and intuition take me to new and greater heights. Excitement filled the air. I drew a vast landscape and in the foreground a man took root - literally grew into the landscape. The drawing was never finished and will fade into obscurity like I know I will. Perhaps I will fall through the cracks. Little did I know that 4 years later I would lose my mind.
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