You know those little things that made things what they are, i miss those most. Getting psyched about the final critique, standing in front of a bunch of professors defining and defending what i do. I miss the smell of oil paint on the third floor visual arts, the flame from foundry, the voice of bonnie and helen. Have you ever stayed up until 3 am. burning out wax molds in the bitter cold making a fire in a steel drum? If you have, you know what's up.
I miss the demanding voices saying work harder, with more passion. Well they are now all internal, somewhere a flame burns inside lighting just a small area of what i know. The rest is open ready to be explored.
Rambles are just what i needed, the studio is calling. Must go.
Everyday i don't get into the studio i feel empty. I'm missing out on something i could have discovered, i could have found out.
Really now I'm finding out what it means to be lost. Standing in a strip mine with one road out, you can loop around and around like everyone else or you can cut new paths, when you get so far look behind at the path you cut. Not straight, curved crooked and bent, loop and double dips, crossing over and back, but never stopping for to long, just pausing to take in the landscape.
Rambling, just what i needed, the studio is calling, must go.
