My mom is a big music girl. She taught me the classics and not so classics. She danced and sang and still does. She's got music style.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Friday, April 24, 2015
I was an artsy student in college (but don't think I was cool or anything because I wasn't). I had paint under my nails and holey overalls and a constant faraway look on my face. After parties, I'd study my coursebook to plan out all the amazing classes I could take. Then in my less than sober state, I'd plan semester after semester. Which was why I ended up taking classes like History of India and Artificial Intelligence (it had a seriously cool title).
In the mess of liberal arts classes that would in no way prepare me for the real world, I discovered poetry. I don't write poetry now, maybe because I don't drink anymore. I plan to start drinking. It's on the list of things to do, I just haven't gotten around to it yet. But back then with a glass of wine I'd climb out my older than dirt living room window onto the older than snot roof and write (and drink...just a tiny bit, honest).
I was inspired and a little broken. I'd lived enough to see too much but not long enough to move on. Maybe it's the artist way, to hold on to what cuts us, to hold on so we can give it away one day in a magical way. I'm not broken anymore. Not healed either. I'm holding on just long enough to find the world my story fits into so it's not my story anymore because I'm finally ready to let it go. I think that's good.
(By Paul Mannix (Flamingos flying, Lake Nakuru National Park, Kenya) [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons)
On another note, check out those freaking flying flamingos!