L'aura del Campo

2019年5月7日 Arty blog

Art took lithium to maintain a balance so he could work. It made him less flexible and eventually killed him, I'm sure. But that's what meds do. I prefer not to take drugs. I embrace my craziness and make sure it doesn't get in the way. But then, I don't work.

Oh... you meant creative art?

Yes, ART is creative, whether subjective or objective. For me, I think of myself as a writer because I write. I can't sculpt. I shouldn't sing. I'm just who I am ... stuck with a Muse who thinks HE's some kind of artist.

I appreciate most artist's art, even when I don't understand it or don't think it's all that great. Every artist needs encouragement in my opinion and since I'm not a sculptor nor a singer I admire what they do.

And realize that most of them can't do what I do because my Muse is speaking to ME and not them. So much for talent...

Whether you enjoy someone's art is subjective. Whether it has good technique, inspires, motivates, et cetera is more objective. Artists are better at measuring good art, but the general public knows what it likes and that subjectivity decides what art is great.

ACCOMPLISHMENTS: Little. Wrote a flash fiction. Took me about 15 minutes because I had to post it by 11 pm WDC time. 9 pm here.
IMAGES: Taste of chili, taste of meatloaf, taste of apple pie. It was a tasty day.
NEW BLOGVILLE: Just leaving comments everywhere. Don't mind the mess. Advice can easily be swept away with the trash.

"Annie, go get your rod"

She'd heard that all her life. Ann stood there in the cold water. Looked down the river at others standing off-shore. Cast her rod. Reeled it slowly in. Cast it again. The day was cloudy, just like yesterday, just like they predicted for tomorrow. She had plenty of time to think. That was the problem. Not the rod and reel, not the wary fish. She tried to meditate by breathing in the smell of spring runoff before the big melt, breathing out the stench of winter. The line became taut. Just a snag she thought. And slowly let the water work it loose. She would love to let everything go. November's heartbreak had led to December's dilemma. Should she have moved? No, this was her home. The river ran through it. The river had always ran through it. This time the tug on the line was no snag. She reeled in a small brown trout. Too small. She unhooked it, threw it back. Fly-fishing was what had keep her sane through her marriage, would keep her sane through the divorce. She pulled back her rod, let another one fly. There were always more fish to catch and release. With that thought, the sun came out.

© Kåre Enga [176.73] (6.maio.2019)

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