Been staying away from reality lately in posting, it’s not pretty. And the backyard inspirations are dark. Stream of consciousness here, I suppose: need a project to focus upon to exclude all else. Taking classes kept me focused. Writing a story does too. Finding though that I don’t enjoy video games–don’t like playing at reality. Belonged to the Society for Creative Anachronism once, as medieval Lady Susanna of Rivendell, Master Bowman and appointed by the Queen. Fed seventy folk from three different centuries, Huns to Royalty, camped for three days in our backyard. Wore a leather tunic laced quite open up the sides or a long velvet gown and chainbelt; felt pretty, but uncomfortable.
So there’s the reason and the problem I face: I am a realist. In art, in reading, in writing, in life, I don’t venture far from what I see as a comfort zone–that which is clearly recognizable.
But there’s hope. I recognize the little rebellions, the walking the edge, the desire to break free without fear.
And with time passed like an hourglass, the years ahead running down, the desire to astound becomes more imperative. I am impatient.