the weight of unmade art

There's something both exhilarating and intimidating about free time and a mild inspiration. I found myself at home tonight, alone except for the dogs... with hours of time to do things. I retrieved my easel from my old apartment, which will enable me to paint again... but it is daunting to paint again after not doing it for months. "What if it's bad and I forgot how?," says my subconscious, my "censor" as Julia Cameron would say. So instead I drew... harmless and easy. Perhaps tomorrow I will put water in my tin can with the brushes in it, put a little paint on some cardboard and wait for the brush to move itself as it sometimes does when you forget to try.

The same goes for singing... if I only have an hour sandwiched between class and a rehearsal to practice, I practice. But with hours and hours and hours at my disposal, somehow I avoid it? Realizing what I was doing, I forced myself to sing... and it was productive. But, damn, was it hard to get myself to do it! That's why God invented practice rooms... to eliminate the distraction of DVR. ;-)

I've read some other people's blogs in my class, and I'm worried that mine is extremely narcissistic (and poorly written). I think I've been musing too much on Virginia Woolf's diary entries... Still, I must remember that she did not write in that journal intending for the world to read her words. Saving my uncensored thoughts for my uncensored journal...