Or: The Art of Self-Discovery During Turbulent Times

It’s been a few weeks since I’ve posted. It has been my intention to post more often, at least once a week. I’ve fallen short of this goal lately, but that’s why we set goals. If we attained them immediately, they wouldn’t be goals, would they?

One thing holding me back from more frequent posting is a fear of typos, feeling like I have to pore over something godforbid a carelesserror obscured my meaning or even worse, made me look foolish! Time to get over that ish.

Because now’s not the time to hold back our joyful noise.

What this world needs is joyful noise to drown out the bellicose bluster.

It has been a difficult time to be a thinking individual. I suppose that’s the understatement of the epoch (an epic understatement). America, a country bearing the flaws of its original sin, but capable of better, has turned into a shadow realm — America’s shadow realm. A destructive force fueled by hatred has launched a multi-pronged blitzkrieg on humanity. Aggressors on every front, trying to wear us down through shock and awe.

Then there’s the matter of the personal day to day. We all have our variety to deal with, our personal supplement to society’s menu. As we shoulder the burdens of a surrealistic late-stage capitalist sh!tshow we also carry the weight of our personal journeys. I’ve picked a hell of a time to undergo a complete psychic metamorphosis.

I never got the concept, “mid life crisis…” — it sounded like something a boomer would go through when his hair starts to thin and he realizes his best days are behind him. I figured he buys a sports car, goes to Sandals for a weekend and comes back in a Hawaiian shirt and flipflops saying “yah mon” for a week or so. I didn’t know it’s really the ego-death/transformation of skin-shedding, purification-by-deconstruction, and reconstruction by whale-oil lamplight in the dark night of the soul.

A silver lining to the thunderclouds of apocalyptic transformation is that their rains have a particular propensity to fertilize the fields of creation — a soil tilled and turned by the tectonic turbulence of an empathic existence.

So I have been creating. Mostly drawing. A little bit of prose. A lot of ideas jotted in journals or in sealed envelopes in the safe deposit box of the unconscious with specific instructions to open when appropriate.

In no particular order and the only unifying theme being the output of a cooperation between my psyche and my fine-motor system, here are some drawings from the last few weeks.

I have many ideas in the works and hope to write them with more frequency.