There was this day when I just thought: What will I do when I don't do what I do now? Will I write to get paid? Or will I do portraits and legal stuff with my hands?
Then I discovered the joy of making personalized greeting cards. And I labeled it at the back of the card, just like Hallmark cards do them, "King's Rose" and then drew a mini-rose just for effect.
With my bare hands I started cropping old cards, photos, even used an old nail polish over the photo of my diva dog, a.k.a. Bootchick, and then assembled them in a way that betrayed mental gravity. I even thought that my old, missing sequined, pieces of cheap, costume jewelry now serve some sort of purpose: they could spend some unknown duration glued to cardstock paper, prettied up and perfectly in place, or not, and yet learn to live with newfound meaning. Oh, and my dusty-old, silly elementary exercises I called "poetry traffic whilst rush hour" will have an exit ramp, finally. Nevertheless, some kind of purpose incarnates.
But then who's to know? So unless I give them a reason to be, then nothing is as nothing does.
Ergo, the avenue of artistic possibilities could be limitless, in a pseudo-simplistic sort of way. Prolific, possibly or accidentally, but just ordinarily extraordinary in nature. No pressure. Just being collaged or pasted or taped or stapled in a way that makes a remarkably unique presence to a particular heart. May I say it could very well be very organic in a sense and deeply orgasmic in another esoteric level of some kind?
But then again, who's to know unless we do what needs to be done? And give what must be given, in order for another to receive the pleasure of having one's own personalized card.
It's free anyway. But it's best given, best received, best done!
Special Note: Incoherence displayed here has nothing to do with the joy of birthing King's Rose. It's a process. Deal with it. So did I. Still do.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
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basically Yours
Convivially, I should attend to all the comments and e-mails that I get when I tell everyone my most private thoughts and, oh, my weaknesses even. But there is a small chance that a lot of people will bump into my own quiet place.
Simply, I don't advertise it, I don't really share it with just anyone, I don't even tell my immediate family about it. I don't even talk about what I really do on a day-to-day basis, or what, quote-unquote, achievements in the bubble-world out there I snag, or how much I do for this and that which, ideal-worldly, merits accolade and, yes, some kind of vertical trophy or something thicker than a cardboard to stuff into some Office Depot certificate frame.
So what is the purpose of this? At first it was just my way of exercise: a sort-of platform to air out what bogs my head when I think, or when I want to say something to someone close but couldn't because it's not appropos at the time or that it's simply immature to even utter, or when I feel like the flow is within me and I want God to be in the know like I am in the know of what's going on in my head, or just to be in the same page with God, because as we all know we aren't always in the same page with the Almighty. It is my own quiet place to be me - suddenly, internally, vocally, artistically, whimsically, stupidly, spiritually - from all adverbial vantage points thesaurus has already, previously factored as a word.
Simply, I don't advertise it, I don't really share it with just anyone, I don't even tell my immediate family about it. I don't even talk about what I really do on a day-to-day basis, or what, quote-unquote, achievements in the bubble-world out there I snag, or how much I do for this and that which, ideal-worldly, merits accolade and, yes, some kind of vertical trophy or something thicker than a cardboard to stuff into some Office Depot certificate frame.
So what is the purpose of this? At first it was just my way of exercise: a sort-of platform to air out what bogs my head when I think, or when I want to say something to someone close but couldn't because it's not appropos at the time or that it's simply immature to even utter, or when I feel like the flow is within me and I want God to be in the know like I am in the know of what's going on in my head, or just to be in the same page with God, because as we all know we aren't always in the same page with the Almighty. It is my own quiet place to be me - suddenly, internally, vocally, artistically, whimsically, stupidly, spiritually - from all adverbial vantage points thesaurus has already, previously factored as a word.
Besides I just am done with the ex-crap, for lack of a better noun, that came with my in-and-ex-baggage I now refer to as pride. It was the stupidity of pride and the ingenuity of embellished prejudice that prevent one's lowest self to be thrown in the air and left to be picked up by a Power stronger and higher than itself. Holding tight to a configuration of self, or the idea of self, is plain stupid in my spiffed-up notion of wisdom, which happens to be the kind that originated from my Maker.
See, I am nobody special to a lot of human beings, but I am special especially to my Maker. This alone, now, gives me peace. He knows what I am doing at all times. I don't really have to announce to Him what my heart's desires are, because He knows me inside and out. But when I blog here, when I use this platform to cry out to Him, it's as if He is right there, ready with His keyboard, ready to respond and comment, or not respond and comment, ready to understand everything I say, ready to forgive me for the foibles that I say in-between-the-lines, ready to decipher the in-between-the-lines before they even come out of here. He is ready for me at all times. He always says, I'm basically yours, my love.
Many times I ask myself: Why do I bother or not bother? Why is it that I am compelled from the deepest recesses of my heart to talk to Him? I don't even seem to exist for any other reason, but to exist for Him. But there is where I could be wrong: He made me for something and that something is so close to me now, just as far as I could stretch my arm. I could smell the purpose. I could even feel the static that creates a whizzing noise when the thin spark implodes. It is here, my purpose. Tapping on my heart, it is here. I am to do what I am supposed to do.
You know what I say to my Maker? Now I say, I am basically Yours, my Maker! Do with me what You will for me to do.
--June 11, 2008, Year of New Beginnings
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