This morning, out of the blue, I have an overwhelming sense of foreboding. Blue and lavender are the colors I used to express these feelings in a drawing. Listening to Judy Carmichael did not help to lift my mood. I printed the words as I thought them: "Sense of foreboding." "Who am I?" "Death, Life." "So tired."
At seventeen, looking into the mirror in my dorm room at the University of Southern California, I asked, "Who am I?" I had become disassociated from my self for the moment. When I told a good friend and she, frightened, reported it to the dorm mother, I quickly shaped up. I did not want the dorm mother meddling in my private affairs.
Earlier in my teens I had written a typical teen angst poem that asked, "Who am I?" But to still be asking that question at sixty-five?!
The first line I wrote on the drawing was "tools of the trade," because I was feeling that these pens I am using will not allow me to express myself adequately. I longed for other tools. And I wondered how the tools we use constrict our lives and our expressions of our lives.
Here's the drawing. Nothing much.
Drawing #28
All is going well in my life, so where did this mood come from? Am I beginning to be anxious already about the upcoming exhibits in June? It's way too early for that!
Why am I always waiting for things to be over? I gobble up my life in this waiting.
And now I will try to finish Canvas #9.
Later: Yes, I did destroy the painting Adrian liked yesterday. And then I kept working. And now I have this one:
Canvas #9, now "Culmination"
And now I will go on with my "to do" list and ignore this mood.
(Note: There is a gap between the dates I'm writing and posting because I had to give myself time to get ahead in case we travel and I'm not able to post.)
