Stirred Up
I'm beginning to find that my narration style is the sort of cracked out, jittery hands and anxious feet, waggling ever so slightly from side to side spew of words that comes from a few various sources.
One is the most apparent: the abrupt influx of far too much caffeine.
The second is slightly less obvious, while still being predictable: the over-stimulation of a sleep deprived mind either by necessity or fever dreams.
The third is the most obscure, really:
Sometime, the most inspirational thing an artist can do is to simply overhear life happening.
If one were to ask me what drew me to the passions I have, later in my life, found, I would have to answer that it was the people. Of course, I would be meaning the interactions with others, the face-to-face contact of total strangers that I experience everyday. Strangers becoming common faces, becoming aquaintences, becoming friends. Deep spiritual rivers that have continued to feed me.
And yet, that would not be all. I have found that there is a deep well of inspiration burrowed deep under that river that I am in touch with everyday. A wellspring of voices, of conversations, of snippets of others lives that have led me to have eyes that can see and hears that can hear.
I have always struggled with creating realistic characters. Namely, because I was always pulling together hodge-podge pieces of constructs and urging them to live. There is no soul in such things. But the spirits that have traveled to me, the pieces of real persons that have influenced the creation - or more accurately, the finding of real characters have littered themselves into my art: those are the essence of what I do.
If only I can find the right pieces of life to inspire change and instill real values, then I have done all I can do.
I am trying, Saul. I have to admit that I have not tried hard enough. But, from today on, I am trying.
One is the most apparent: the abrupt influx of far too much caffeine.
The second is slightly less obvious, while still being predictable: the over-stimulation of a sleep deprived mind either by necessity or fever dreams.
The third is the most obscure, really:
Sometime, the most inspirational thing an artist can do is to simply overhear life happening.
If one were to ask me what drew me to the passions I have, later in my life, found, I would have to answer that it was the people. Of course, I would be meaning the interactions with others, the face-to-face contact of total strangers that I experience everyday. Strangers becoming common faces, becoming aquaintences, becoming friends. Deep spiritual rivers that have continued to feed me.
And yet, that would not be all. I have found that there is a deep well of inspiration burrowed deep under that river that I am in touch with everyday. A wellspring of voices, of conversations, of snippets of others lives that have led me to have eyes that can see and hears that can hear.
I have always struggled with creating realistic characters. Namely, because I was always pulling together hodge-podge pieces of constructs and urging them to live. There is no soul in such things. But the spirits that have traveled to me, the pieces of real persons that have influenced the creation - or more accurately, the finding of real characters have littered themselves into my art: those are the essence of what I do.
If only I can find the right pieces of life to inspire change and instill real values, then I have done all I can do.
I am trying, Saul. I have to admit that I have not tried hard enough. But, from today on, I am trying.
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