I really dislike it when I misplace something, whether it is a real something or an imagined something, or a something within our digital world.
I have been in search of my inner artist. Several months ago, I happened upon a website in which an artist had dabbled in Zentangle. I have been dabbling in my own tangling artwork and it was one of her pieces mixed in with others that drew me to her website. In that blog I ventured to her other artwork and found her unusual style of art which captured my attention and stayed with me. I thought I had bookmarked it but now months later when I wanted to return to view her work, I can no longer find it.
How frustrating is this? I have spent the past three days searching online with every possible combination of words to try and bring her art forward into the vast pictures which are displayed from my search. All to no avail. It leaves me feeling frustrated, exhausted and defeated. While on the other hand, it has encouraged me to experiment with my own art.
I draw pictures using ink, sometimes black, sometimes blue, red, green, or with pencil. I used to draw only using pencil, enjoying the freedom it provides in different depths of shading but now I’m learning how freeing ink can be for a perfectionist mindset that needs to just let go and realize there are no mistakes in art.
Then too, I draw pictures with words. I have experimented in the foreplay words can provide for a sensual mind and a desperate heart. I often wonder how much of my writing reveals about me and whether anyone ever really feels the emotions seeping between the spaces.
I have dabbled in other forms of creativity too. Knitting, crocheting, cross-stitch and of late quilting. Quilting being the most dangerous of creative endeavors. How many times does it take for one to see the dangers before backing up and taking a stand to dive in no matter what the cost?
How different is this from those creative endeavors in my younger years? What endeavors you might ask? The endeavors of the heart would be my reply.
Sitting alone in a bar, sipping a drink, after having artfully applied makeup, carefully chosen a few articles of clothing meant to allure, capture and possibly take captive a willing victim. How many times did I see him sitting across the dark room, watching, feigning interest, looking for his own victim?
It didn’t matter how many times. My juices pooled in the appropriate places, while the radical thrumming behind my breast, left me feeling breathless with anticipation. How utterly astonishing to discover now, after all these years, I feel the same excitement when I put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard, needle to material.
There, however, is nothing to compare to the heated touch of a lover. His hot breath upon my skin. The taste of earth and salt as I explore, as I search, as I feel the same frustrations, each time, when I realize I have misplaced something and cannot find it, no matter how hard I search.
That is when I realize, I am the victim of my own foolishness.