The year we make contact.
Um, no, wait. That’s Arthur C. Clarke and Roy Scheider and a mysterious camera somehow outside the spaceship transmitting video inside as they slingshot around Jupiter.
Anyway. I thought I’d start the new year – new decade, yikes – with an introduction of sorts.
I’m Heather. I live near St Louis, Missouri with my husband Andrei, 3-year-old son Aiden, family friend C., and a black cat named Nuit. I’m hard of hearing since birth, and have syringomyelia and fibromyalgia from a car accident in 2007. I -
You see, this is the thing. I don’t really know who I am anymore.
I have – fragments. Remnants, torn scraps of my life before the accident. Many of them are good, just – less than what they were. And right now everything I’ve got is trying to make sense of those scraps, reassemble them into something I can call a decent life, with purpose and direction and flow. To somehow find the new intersection of what I want to do with what I can do, and be okay with that.
And what role does art play in this? After all, this blog is called “The Living Artist”. I wonder, often, how much right I have to claim the title of artist anymore. My professional status, always shaky as I never made anywhere near enough money to support myself, has not even a whisper of truth anymore. Months go by sometimes without my putting pen to paper. But there are two things I cling to when I can’t remember who I am or why I’m here. One is my son Aiden. The other is art. If I can’t make art, I can think about it. If I can’t think about it, I can look at it. If I can’t look at it, I can hold tight to the belief that all these things will return in time. They always have. And sometimes that’s all I have.
Anyway, since blogging is, as Havi likes to say, therapy you don’t have to pay for, here is where I’m trying to work all that out.
To sum up with a complete non sequitur, here’s a cross-section of my favorite blogs, in no particular order:
Date: January 7, 2010