Day three turned me into a modern artist, and that is a sentence I never thought I would say. I had a pile of (for lack of a better term) crap in front of me, some of which I brought to donate to the cause of "Writing with Things," and others of which were thrust upon me. But things didn't take shape right away. I had a few pieces which struck me as significant for some reason, but not in such a way that I know what to do with them.
So I go with my strongest urge-- I'm going to grab that hammer and break something. Just because it's there, and when else is that an option?
I get a rush of simple pleasure in the crack of the porcelain as the hammer meets the cracked mug. But then as I collect the pieces, I brush my pinky against the shattered edge of one of the tiniest and most insignificant pieces. It was the stun of the sting and the outpouring of blood that didn't seem to stop and only grew in strength coming from a moment of elation that inspired me. Pain often lasts longer than the joy (as demonstrated by the battle wound), though both are felt strongly. I sought to build my art from that.
And this is considered creation... and, in a weird way, provides as distinctive and heartfelt a story as writing can provide.
So I go with my strongest urge-- I'm going to grab that hammer and break something. Just because it's there, and when else is that an option?
I get a rush of simple pleasure in the crack of the porcelain as the hammer meets the cracked mug. But then as I collect the pieces, I brush my pinky against the shattered edge of one of the tiniest and most insignificant pieces. It was the stun of the sting and the outpouring of blood that didn't seem to stop and only grew in strength coming from a moment of elation that inspired me. Pain often lasts longer than the joy (as demonstrated by the battle wound), though both are felt strongly. I sought to build my art from that.
And this is considered creation... and, in a weird way, provides as distinctive and heartfelt a story as writing can provide.