Today is a unique day. Today is the day I not only attracted every single whacko and stoned wierdo in Downtown and Capitol Hill and had an intruiging and odd conversation with each (ok, it was only three people, but ALL IN ONE DAY.. and the conversations were REALLY wierd) but today I move my things out of my childhood bedroom and take away the things that I will use in my future life.
Granted, not everything is coming with me. There will, at some point, be a sizeable garage sale of clothing and other such sundries to clear out what I no longer use, while other things I can never part with. For instance, I have held onto every personal letter I've recieved since I was eight years old. These have, over time, filled many many boxes and while it is unlikely that I will go back and read every single letter again, simply reading the address bar with a friend's name on it makes my heart flutter in nostalgia. We live in a time that doesn't honor the written word as it once was honored. There was a time when writting something in ink could be the deepest expression of love or a binding legal moment or the thin line betweeen life or death! Now, pens are just pens. Paper is just paper. But to look over the letters, even just in their boxes, brings me joy because these dear friends, some still in my life and others passed on into disconnection, took the time and care to pen their dreams to me, and I to them.
The pen can indeed be mightier than any sword.
AH! I'm so tired! I haven't slept fully and consitently in days. No, I haven't stayed up obscenely late every single night, but I am suffering for the necessity of my recent activities. Two jobs and moving into a new apartment don't blend well. FYI. But, in a few days I will be settled and continue settling and just... living.
In a few days I will also be celebrating my 23rd birthday. How quickly they come... As I reflect on 22 I see growth through hard times. 22 marked the end of undergrad as well as the end of some relationships. It breaks my heart to lose someone, and to seemingly lose many was a trigger for a deep depression lasting for several months.
France saved me, or rather, I saved myself by traveling there to be with close friends- friends who are and will be like family to me forever. Now I'm holding still again, after three months of transitional living, two moves and three living spaces... I'm home. My empty bedroom doesn't look sad or uninviting, but rather like it's waiting for something. As if it knows that it isn't ending... just trasferring to a new space. A reincarnation of itself through me. Material things, though intrinsically of no real value in the universe, do tell the story of those who inhabit their use. A table. An infinite possibility for creation, communion, love, intimacy, conflict, resolution and peace.
I'm not a materialist. Rather, as an artist I see the way that things around me can tell a story. it is the humans that give them value and purpose, and in doing so, grow in the opportunity to find an eternal home without objects or space in the soul.
Art without image
Space without light
Feeling without touch.
Simplicity.
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