hiatus...

Obviously, I haven't been posting. It's not as much due to my artistic crisis as it is due to my personal time commitments. Once I leave WeddingLand, I'll be much more artistically inclined. Seven days left, my friends. Seven days.

Existential/artistic crisis.

I had a coffee meeting with a dear professor and friend last Wednesday early morning. It had been a while since we had talked last, as I haven't kept up very well with those professors that meant so much to me. Bill and I have always had a interesting connection. I think we're almost too similar in many ways, which means I didn't really connect with him on a personal level until my final year of college. Regardless, we met at the Coffee Cottage, he arriving first and sitting by the window, his CD player and wet green rain jacket next to him.
The pleasantries first, then talking about life and books. I mentioned that I've had trouble writing since leaving school. And then he said, "You don't have to write. Maybe you don't like it that much. No one's forcing you."
Those words rocked me to my very core. It was like they entered in through my ears, and rattled around inside my rib cage, pushing vital organs out of the way while they created havoc. It was said nicely, but it felt like a blow to the stomach, all the air knocked out of my lungs. Simple words floored me.
As much as I can pinpoint, it was mostly surprise. I think I was expecting encouragement. I've come to expect that from my teachers, that cultivating of a special something they see in me. And now, one of my most valued opinions just said that I didn't need to write.
Now, I took it 100% the wrong way. He never said or even implied that I shouldn't write. He was just trying to be helpful in erasing any guilt or pain I had over not writing. But that, plus a rather discouraging look at my own poetry, made for a shattered artistic confidence. I realized, as he was critiquing some of my recent work, that I have fallen away from the technique, the things that make poems great instead of merely fine or decent.
So, what was I trying to do with my art? Why was I doing it? What was I doing it for? And if I'm not a writer, what do I possibly have? Who can I possibly be? This is all I've ever done, all I've ever been slightly above par at, and maybe I've been deluded all this time.
And here is my existential purpose: if I'm not writing, what am I doing on this earth? And what was I expecting to do with my art anyway? I don't have the fire or the self-discipline to try to be a starving artist, so I'm destined for a life of mediocrity, both as a human and an artist. That's okay for some; is it okay with me? Haven't I already been living it?
It was my first artistic crisis, where I questioned why I did what I do, if I love what I do, if I even should do what I fight to do. And it's not reconciled yet. I'm still in the midst of it, as I don't really have any answers. I'm just past the "throw myself off a bridge because I have no purpose in life" stage - thank God for one poor co-worker who "heard" my panic over MSN Messenger and one poor roommate who patiently listened as I threw all of my insecurity all over the apartment.
I still don't know what I'm doing, or why I am doing it. I'm not sure how to make this passion, this hobby, into something that lives and breathes and makes a difference in this world. I do know that art is important. It is beautiful. It makes the difference between light and dark both more distinct and more fuzzy. It is worth something. Now I just need to figure out if what I'm doing is worthy of being called art. And if it is, what does that mean? And if it's not, what does that mean?
If anything, remember that I'm not near any bridges, and if I were, I would not swan dive off of them. The tempest is only within my soul; the rest of me functions as usual. And so, the writing may be more sparse for now. But I am so thankful for those who read. And I'm so thankful for those who comment and give me things to think about. And for those who encourage me, I thank you. And for those who cause crises (like Bill, who is still one of my favorite people), thanks too - without the struggle, there would be nothing.
That's all for tonight. Until tomorrow, or the next day...I will return. I promise. I'm not too far away.

doesn't even count as a numbered poem

In most every coming of age
movie, involving a young girl
on the cusp of womanhood,
especially a period piece, say, set
in the 1940s or 1960s, there tends
to always be a strong woman who
challenges her assumptions,
her ideals, her morals, the path
that the young one is on. This
woman is educated, usually wearing
pants and/or glasses. She reads,
has a dry wit, enjoys music and
art. She is often poor, finding literature
to be of her greatest value. And, not
to give it away, but in the end, she
is the savior of the young girl, pulling
out that potential that was there all
along. This woman also is marked
by her singleness, that is, her living
alone, her lack of husband, the sense
of being solo. And she is the strong
brave one who tells every girl that
they can survive without men, yes,
they can, while young protagonist
starts making out with her romantic
lead, even while retaining her head
smarts. And this trope is a truism,
those single women who taught us how
to be feminists, to be fierce and
confident in our own muscles, blood,
and brains.

(UNFINISHED...but i wanted to prove i wrote something)