Over the weekend I had the pleasure of meeting in person three really awesome women; Suz, Robin and JoAnna. I want to write about that experience but I need to save it for another day. Too many thoughts are flowing through me right now. I do want to write about one particular part of our visit though.
We went to super talented JoAnna’s loft to view her art. She had done a collective piece on Primal Wound, which I hope she will consider sharing with the world some day (It has inspired all sorts of ideas in me which I will also discuss later after they are more clearly defined in my mind). These pieces were individually stunning and yet collectively seem to have been more than I could process. I immediately went into overload. I was surrounded by women who could openly show how her art made them feel and yet I stood there like a rock. Why?
As an artist my inability to invoke emotion when looking at these pieces bothers me to no end. Not that I expect to connect with all art but surely THIS art would conjure an emotional response! I was standing in a room with three women who could cry and openly touch the wounded parts of their souls without cowering. I could not cry, I could not FEEL. It made me realize that I have built a protective wall so tall and so strong that I fear I may never be able to tear it down.
I wrote this (below) several months ago. I never posted it because it made me feel too raw and quite frankly I don’t like what it says. I don’t like it one bit. I am uncomfortable with the fact that these emotions were inside of me, but what bothers me even more is that after the recent conclusion of the torturous events I experienced with my nmother I have discovered that I seem to have lost my ability to feel truthfully and with abandon. It would seem my honest and real emotions are the casualty of a war I was neither ready for, wanting, nor a willing participant in. Some may consider this a good thing, being in “control” and all but I do not. As an artist I depend on my emotions. They are my muse.
I guess it’s a catch 22 isn’t it? I am uncomfortable with the emotions I had when writing this piece and yet I now find myself uncomfortable that I seem to be without access to them at all.
This writing seems to have been a look at what was to come for me and for my emotions. Wherever they are.
Your indifference does not suit me.
The coldness of your heart forms a callous on mine.
Your childish fear burdens my overtaxed mind and destroys more brain cells than the drugs of my youth ever did.
Confusion sets my mind ablaze with thoughts unbecoming of a lady.
I think my mother would be ashamed of me if she could hear my thoughts.
Are you? Ashamed?
These emotions are all wrapped up in a neat and tidy package, delivered to your door in a blaze of glory, waiting for you to step on them like a brown paper bag filled with sh*t.
Waste is waste.
My emotions are wasted on you.