you forget
You saw an emptiness teeming. Felt the black and gray. You moved color in contrasting emotions. Thick layers of desperate longing and letters. Dismay thinned by hope and mineral spirits. You made something from nothing. A composition composed across the absurd. A light in the dark. Where there was none. Saw that it was good. Saw that it was plenty. That it is enough. That it is all you need. It was evening and it was morning. There is action, and there is intention. But now you can’t remember. Now you forget.
You traced the outline of a horizon. A firmament. Imagined an event upon the expanse between alternating shades of watercolor blue. One above and one below. Created a sense of distance. Something transcendent. A difference between the texture of the atmosphere, and the depths of the unseen. An idea you pictured made vivid in ways you never thought you could. It was evening and it was morning. Conception is one thing, and conviction is another. But now it all feels like a dream. Like it happened to someone else. Now you can’t remember. You forget that it was you.
You found something sturdy in the midst of something oceanic. You pulled it up. Pulled it out. Gathered a place of sure footing. A rough sketch. An outline of world-building. A solid place to stand. Where a seed can be planted. Where something starts to grow. Where the unwieldy yields to something new. It was evening and it was morning. There is construction, and then there is creation. But now you’re not so sure where you are anymore. Whether you’re stable or adrift. Now you can’t remember. Now you forget.
You had a rhythm. A structure. A ritual of passage and passages. As dependable as the rising sun. As constant as the phases of the moon. One day after another. One word in front of another. It was evening and it was morning. Production is one thing, and propulsion is another. Now you come to your desk empty. You can’t remember the daylight in the darkness. You can’t remember the difference. You forget how you ever did.
"You dreamed..with a power and an innocence that not many people ever experience", Lev Grossman says. You became an artist because "You wanted the world to be better than it was." You wanted to see life in everything. To notice it everywhere. In the water. On the ground. In the air. You wanted to see it produce and multiply. But, sometimes the world doesn't change. Sometimes you don't either. Sometimes nothing does. It was evening and it was morning. There is motion, and then there is motive. Somewhere in the daily task of committing yourself to paper you forget. You can't remember what it's for. You can't remember why.
There is a terror that happens in the gap between words, between works. A panic that the ink of your own image has been poured out beyond what can be refilled. That the last words you penned will be the last words you ever pen again. That they'll never come back again. That you'll never write again. You hold your breath in the wait. It's not a question of brute force or strength, but rather your ability to endure. It was evening and it was morning. And you hope to remember. You hope you won't forget. Resignation is one thing, resolve is another. And so you rest…
Here’s a few pieces I made earlier this week that weren’t for anthing in particular that I thought I’d share with you here: