Without Con.text I hover uncertain of my direction. I feel like my bones have been picked clean and a howling gale whistles through me; it snatches everything and yet still leaves me here. Where to now? I'm working and wishing that my inspiration will take flight.
I miss my muse, I miss my heart.
Today there is nothing to say.
Slow moving marks on a blank page
say nothing yet, and nothing yet
I have been playing in vain with
big, bold charcoal and flirting with
inconsequential words: yearning.
Hiding what might be the real me
to avoid contention; bland is
the new black. I feel too broken
to make waves, but who is it I
am trying to mend with tiny
points of black ink on blank paper?
Dots that take days, weeks to reveal
faces, reveal secrets conceal
more; yet fail to clothe my gipsy
bones. Flight, the flame that consumes
me, playing with fire and finding
my way home from mistakes, without
obliterating love. Is this
flying? In these bare, heartless bones
I am yearning, aching to fly.
When my computer died I consoled myself with the hope that my work could be recovered from the old hard drive. My current project exists there, as well as all my previous writing and graphic workings. Over Christmas I discovered that this was not the relatively simple task I had imagined. The old hard drive is split over two discs and recovery depends on being able to access both simultaneously.
The distress I have been holding at bay threatened to overwhelm the Christmas spirit, but somehow hope still prevails. Working on 'Con.text' has been a wonderful distraction, and in a sense, a new start which I hope will inspire future projects and fresh ways of working with my new technologies.
Of course I'm cross with myself for neglecting to back up files on a regular basis and how ironic is it to feel that some of my best work was created while struggling with so little computer memory that even saving while I worked was problematic.
Is it time to face up to the prospect of losing the lot? And where do I go from here?
Didn't you always want straight hair?
Brown-gold skin; grey-green eyes?
The stuff you didn't have?
I always wanted roots;
anchors and solid foundations.
My practice echoes this.
I work well with volumes
of background stuff to refer to.
Yet I live my life, mime
the dance, without knowing
who I am; only how I feel.