New Year. Real Me?
Dec 31st 2018 (Because I said so and if it is in print, it must be true.)
This year I did not make any resolutions. I decided it was a better habit to not make promises that I couldn’t keep, and decided against making any at all. Spontaneously however, on January 12th it struck me I should go back in time to December 31st and commit to writing daily. A habit that would serve my career and aspirations to write my first book in 2019 well, but one that I have already failed to cultivate thirteen days in a row. Unless you shall adopt this ruse with me, and make believe this post was in fact originally inspired and organically generated on December 31st 2018. Resolutely. Hallmarking the makings of a productive 2019. A post on the hallowed eve of a New Year that has since been followed up with thirteen other posts proving how steadfast an individual and delusional a writer I can be. Fortunately for me, not many care to discern between fact and fiction these days, so anyone actually reading this drivel can now attest that the ‘creative liberties’ I am taking are well reasoned and self justified and thus in all likelihood true.
Clearly off to a great and auspicious start, procrastination, deception and on thirteen counts, plus I have managed to say a whole lot of nothing and still typed out to line ten and a whole new paragraph. Perhaps my capacity to be the architect of a reality that we, you the reader and me the author, concede to co-create out of mutual lethargy will serve us both well, because why effort to agree to disagree when it’s easier to politely pretend we concur? Couple that with the art of saying a lot without saying anything at all and I just might be able to develop this ever elusive habit of ‘writing daily.” A ‘writer’s ethic’ if you will.
Each day I plan on writing about something, hopefully some of the things pondered about and put into digital print will be of use to at least a few of you. It’s a good thing I am an optimist, would be impossible to fill blank white space with one’s own self otherwise. Filling any void with one’s own self through the courageous act of personal expression is at best egotistical with a splash of narcissism and at worst is one’s honest way of coming to terms with one’s own impending mortality. As an artist I am often lead to this existential precipice and wonder if I should say anything at all, but since my self assigned career title ‘Creative Conservationist’ demands I fill spaces with my self to turn a dime, mostly to provide for my yearling Aussiedor’s elevated culinary tastes, I persevere.
I shall accompany each post with a photograph or artwork, because it fills more space with my perspectives and interpretations of the world. It’s all a futile effort until I meet my inevitable demise but every now and again there is an undulation in public receptivity to my contributions, when people applaud and encourage both my process and final product. For the most part however, I am alone in my studio gazing at the ceiling asking myself the third why that time consumptively leads me to nowhere. So here is to my fledgling practice taking wing!