Thursday, August 15, 2013
I realized tonight that it's not just dance or ceramics that I miss. It's art, in all of it's forms. It's a fluidity of creation you don't necessarily get with writing. When you write, you don't so much touch it. The muscle memory stays on the page, rather than flying through the air, sliding along wet clay as it turns ever faster on the wheel. I miss the tactility of experience, of knowing what I see in front of me, what I watch in the mirror is me, an expression of everything inside. Words on a page may be the soul laid bare, but art is joy and light an unbounded expression of life.