Are you familiar with Dylan Thomas's, 'Do no go gentle into that good night'? I read it years ago in high school and I am sure many of you know it too; his words resonate with just about all of us.
I tell stories with my work, with acrylic, oil pastels and chalks. Gouche brings such a delicate feeling to a piece that I swear that my morning mountain renditions almost taste of the mist I was breathing in. In another, flashy chaotic colors of the sea and building cumulonimbus broken with blinding sunlight show the world as it is felt by me.
I've had this recurrent dream and I didn't realize it's presence was persistent until a couple of nights ago. It arrives when in the dream, I am a bird, wings beating against a glass ceiling; a fleck of dust spiraling in a ray of sunlight, a butterfly, caught in a net -Here is when the repeated dream arrives; when I am panicked; wedged and flight impossible.
At that pinnacle of raging abscond, something gathers me close, like I am a child again, whispering "shhhhhhh....shhhhh..." into my hair. That something is usually an element, sometimes sunlight, other times the Wind Woman; once it was Dee.
I have fought with that something, struggled to get away, but the bind is too strong and I usually give into exhaustion and listen to the breath on my face "...shhhhh......".
My sweetheart asks why am I so much more restless these last few months. What has changed? I didn't know. To figure it out, I have spent erogenous amounts of time studying myself and the people around me, my life, their lives, my choices, their choices; weighing and considering. The thing is he is changed too and we are holding hands while the rest of us is changing. That's thing about individuals and relationships; the trick isn't to change and change to together, it is to change and stay together.
Yesterday, as I flipped through work from my early twenties and pre-internet days, I saw ideas that were more chaotic, more flashy -more wild, random and yet measured, then my work today.
I think I cannot help my restlessness because I don't want to help it. Most of the time I am glorying in it. I love the burn, the ache, the raw scorched heat on my palms. When storms build, when hot summer days drag into the next, when the ice of winter fries my face - I cannot describe the thrill of being alive.
When I am royally wiping out on my skis, plunging down hill at reckless speeds; do you know what my one and only thought is as I inhale powdery snow and try to halt my flailing self?
It is, "ops, more edge" or "ops, less edge". It's never ever, holy crap what am I doing?
Last night, I reached for the moon and she reached back and found me. She cradled me close, smiled and whispered, "...shhhhh....". Safe with her, I saw I have been trying to conform, to tone down, to blend. I have been trying to change my work, change my posts; I have even begun to edit my journals.
And in reply, my inner six year old has awoken with the shout, "No no! I will not go gentle into the good night."
PS: Have a tolerant husband; although regularly exasperated with his dreamer/ artist/ semi-professional girl; he still coaxes, cajoles, argues, debates and encourages.
PSS: I have also decided all women, including self, are, at least mildly, unstable. We can not help it. Our hearts are too big, our self image too bizarre and our perceptions are all thus eschewed. Men are toast. Thanks for trying to put up with us.
"Do not go gentle into that good night"
Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
I tell stories with my work, with acrylic, oil pastels and chalks. Gouche brings such a delicate feeling to a piece that I swear that my morning mountain renditions almost taste of the mist I was breathing in. In another, flashy chaotic colors of the sea and building cumulonimbus broken with blinding sunlight show the world as it is felt by me.
I've had this recurrent dream and I didn't realize it's presence was persistent until a couple of nights ago. It arrives when in the dream, I am a bird, wings beating against a glass ceiling; a fleck of dust spiraling in a ray of sunlight, a butterfly, caught in a net -Here is when the repeated dream arrives; when I am panicked; wedged and flight impossible.
At that pinnacle of raging abscond, something gathers me close, like I am a child again, whispering "shhhhhhh....shhhhh..." into my hair. That something is usually an element, sometimes sunlight, other times the Wind Woman; once it was Dee.
I have fought with that something, struggled to get away, but the bind is too strong and I usually give into exhaustion and listen to the breath on my face "...shhhhh......".
My sweetheart asks why am I so much more restless these last few months. What has changed? I didn't know. To figure it out, I have spent erogenous amounts of time studying myself and the people around me, my life, their lives, my choices, their choices; weighing and considering. The thing is he is changed too and we are holding hands while the rest of us is changing. That's thing about individuals and relationships; the trick isn't to change and change to together, it is to change and stay together.
Yesterday, as I flipped through work from my early twenties and pre-internet days, I saw ideas that were more chaotic, more flashy -more wild, random and yet measured, then my work today.
I think I cannot help my restlessness because I don't want to help it. Most of the time I am glorying in it. I love the burn, the ache, the raw scorched heat on my palms. When storms build, when hot summer days drag into the next, when the ice of winter fries my face - I cannot describe the thrill of being alive.
When I am royally wiping out on my skis, plunging down hill at reckless speeds; do you know what my one and only thought is as I inhale powdery snow and try to halt my flailing self?
It is, "ops, more edge" or "ops, less edge". It's never ever, holy crap what am I doing?
Last night, I reached for the moon and she reached back and found me. She cradled me close, smiled and whispered, "...shhhhh....". Safe with her, I saw I have been trying to conform, to tone down, to blend. I have been trying to change my work, change my posts; I have even begun to edit my journals.
And in reply, my inner six year old has awoken with the shout, "No no! I will not go gentle into the good night."
PS: Have a tolerant husband; although regularly exasperated with his dreamer/ artist/ semi-professional girl; he still coaxes, cajoles, argues, debates and encourages.
PSS: I have also decided all women, including self, are, at least mildly, unstable. We can not help it. Our hearts are too big, our self image too bizarre and our perceptions are all thus eschewed. Men are toast. Thanks for trying to put up with us.
"Do not go gentle into that good night"
Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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