there was something on the radio this afternoon--something ranty and sermonizing, which tone I didn't like so much, but despite that the something still wriggled into my head with enough weight to feel worthwhile anyway--about how many humans these days seem to forget about their own capacity to create and give. why are we so busy seeking, consuming, winding distractions around ourselves? we could be so much happier-busier in making and working.
it's not so easy, of course. a life cannot be all giving. to create we must also consume. constant see-sawing between input, output. read, write. watch, do.
today I really wanted to make some things. so I got out the typewriter friend Sam gave me years ago, and I threaded in its new spools of ribbon, and I stuck in a little blank notepage, and I mashed its keys for a while, trial-and-erroring until it worked as I imagine it was meant to.
I made a card. tomorrow perhaps I will type a letter to somebody. I have stamps. I have a whole box of stationery-esque materials. this month is even National Letter Writing Month.
letters are not pictures, technically, even if they're a thousand words long.
but typing letters and scribbling pictures both count as production. making, creating, tracing after springtime and the new.
I am trying not to think so much of my self this weekend. this month. maybe I'll send you a letter. or some art. or both.
3 comments:
That there picture at the end looks kinda like the path I want to make. Wanna come make it with me?
a path to where?
Through plants and things.
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