Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Show Me

(My cousin, Juan Carlos asked me to write something to inspire him to put his sculpture portfolio on line.)

Show me

Show me how the passion in your soul
your core
your self
dances with bronze and concrete and form and shape

Show me how your
very own
brand of

has created power and thought and joy and angst and wonder

through the mediums
given forth by the earth.

Show me the song that is sung
only by you;
music that r
uns from your soul through your mind through your hands

into form.

Show me


I haven't written in awhile.
I'm not really sure why.

Probably the same reason why I haven't painted, haven't written letters by hand, haven't made sure I work out, and the reason my socks go missing after I know I put them both in the wash. Ok, maybe not that reason.

I miss writing.

Sometimes I put pressure on myself to write in the same form that I tend to. You know, that sort of poetry, sort of not, lists of words, artistic use of punctuation way.
And, If I don't, I won't publish it.

I don't want to dissapoint anyone.
I don't want to dissapoint myself.

Why should I feel this kind of pressure?

It makes me think about the boxes that we put ourselves in...
boxes that we put others in.
Boxes we put ourselves in because we think others want us in them.

I like to think that I don't do that. Put people in boxes.
Yet, I know I do.

Look, I'm putting myself in one. This box about writing, and knowing that people might read it, and thinking, "What if they don't like it or What if they wish it was like the others, or..."

I know that I do that with other areas of my life too.

Sometimes I have feelings or desires or philosophies that I don't make known.
Don't speak aloud.
Don't show.

Because I have projected onto those I care about a box I believe I am supposed to live in.

I am supposed to look "normal".
I am supposed to fit well into mainstream society but have just enough gumption to challenge people while not making them uncomfortable.

I am supposed to be pretty, but just overweight enough to make me accessible and easily understood by the average joe.

I am supposed to be talented, but not do so much with it that I come across as arrogant.

I am supposed to make it clear that I don't hold the right wing position on things, but I am to keep my real, passionate thoughts to myself so I don't hurt the tender sensitivities of people I care about.

Supposed to.
Supposed to.
Supposed to.
Supposed to.

No one ever told me that I was supposed to be these things. Why is it that I think that others feel this way?

Maybe they do. Maybe they don't.

Does it matter?

Is this affliction with worrying about whether people will continue to hold me in high esteem,
continue to love me, continue to respect me....
Just mine?

What am I sacrificing by editing the expression of myself?

What do I lose