4/9/2024
Take a seat next to me; let me paint you a picture. I sit alone in this bedroom, leaning against the walnut brown headboard, wondering what to write about. Blue pen in hand, mind as blank as the unlined page before me. The recessed lights dimly lit above my head, illuminating the room just enough to see what I'm scribbling. Ceiling fan idle, blinds drawn, close door wide open because I forgot to close it.
Today someone told me I'm "blocked" and my job is to figure out what that blockage is and work to remove it. Is it hesitation, fear, lack of desire, feeling inept? Is it something in my past, my present, concern (or lack thereof) for the future?
I once started a poem, "how do I move forward when concrete fills my shoes," and that really resonates in this moment. My spouse is downstairs, kids in bed, and I'm stuck in this g-d damn bedroom by chains of my own making. "When words don't come, write anyway." Yeah, I wrote that piece but it's much harder in practice. My hand moves but there is no real thought behind the pen strokes. No real intention, no mission, just scrawl. I'd doodle if I had any artistic talent. But words come more natural to me. So, I write, instead.
This is my version of doodling, I suppose. It certainly is no Rembrandt, no Van Gogh. It's more akin to a middle-schooler bored in history class. But I write, nonetheless. Keeping the pen moving up and down, swaying back and forth, trying to keep time in this senseless song.
An abrupt pivot from art to music? why not? Back to art. This doodle is monochromatic at best. Not a hint of shading, or lighting, or perspective.
This is my stick figure Mona Lisa, and I'm sharing it with you.