I remember it well, walking on the beach with my boy, finding all sorts of things like seaweed encrusted sandals, muted shards of broken glass, shells, and the decimated parts of various creatures. We arranged them archeologically into what they might have resembled if they were still living. All of this has nothing to do with the rant except that feeling of coming apart while invested in a creative venture that should be fun. Art is only partially about work. Mainly, it is an excercise in experiencing and reflecting life.
The rant was originally written about a specific person. It still is, but it is also about many people in both my past and present. I will probably come across them again in my future, too. We are always getting fooled. You probably know people like this. I hope I am not the only one. In some ways it is also about myself. I hope I am not the only one there as well. As much as we all want to get out of the metaphoric sandbox, we know how safe it is there. We are comfortable with it, dirt and sand and another child's piss. Sometimes even our own. My sister lingered too long with the doodlebugs and wet herself one time. We all have. She does worse every time she gets in swimming water. The trick is being able to stay young enough to play there, but be old enough to play on the beach also.
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