It ain’t easy being a man whose passions are multiple

or: it was a big mistake to take up drawing
or: sometimes progress just creates new complications

So this last summer I dabbled with learning to draw. The degree of enjoyment is immensely high though I’ve still a mountain of learning to learn.

So I recently drew a young woman’s bottom, complete with a skirt blown by a breeze so to expose her panties and her upper thighs. I’m sure an advanced eye could find many faults in it as I would find many faults in it if I’d continue practicing for a couple years. But I still felt good enough about it to put it on the refrigerator.

Now I still consider myself primarily a wordsmith, favoring the poetic. But every time I walk by the refrigerator, that sketch catches my eye and I stop and suckle a tit of amazement, that I drew that picture, that it is clear to see what it is, and frankly, gives me a mild arousal.

Then this inner voice trickles to the surface; says, ‘if you’d set aside a block of time, let’s say, 4-6 months, and did nothing but draw – put aside the poetry, the stories, the guitar, the camera, everything, and just draw-draw-draw – devote – that’s the word – devote 6 solid months to nothing but drawing. Oh imagine how far along, what fun stuff there would be by the end of those 6 solid months.’ The sentiment is overwhelmingly persuasive and I can’t but agree and go for a deeper muse on it.

Well then what happens, I happen to glance at some poems, and realize there’s been already this much time spent in poetry. This inner voice trickles to the surface; says, ‘part of your problem is you still cling to other passions. You still entertain prose and dreams of conquering the novel. But just think – suppose you’d set aside a block of time, say, 4-6 months, and did nothing but write poems. Put aside the drawing, the long stories, the guitar, the camera, everything, and just write poems, poems, poems. Devote a block of six solid months to writing poems and nothing else.’

Well, fictions are close neighbors to poems. So maybe I’ll notice a fiction story I’d abandoned, pick it up, scan it, smack my forehead, lament, ‘oh why did I abandon this! It’s quite entertaining’. This inner voice trickles to the surface, and says, ‘if you’d set aside a block of time….’

Then there’s the guitar I dabble with but an inner voice trickles to the surface, says, ‘if you’d do more than dabble, if you’d set aside a block of time, say 6 solid months….’

and I cannot yet remove that picture from the refrigerator.

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About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
This entry was posted in art, lamentation, thoughts, travails and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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