The finish is sometimes harder than the start.

Why do I keep coming to this so late? Why am I so restless? I exhaust myself with long, long hours, almost all my waking hours absorbed in work, until my shoulders can barely hold up my head, then come home, dinner , read ceramics monthly and discuss life, ideas, firings, glazings, ambitions, and other mysteries with josh until neither of us can hold up our heads then both of us to bed. Him fast asleep and I'm wondering what it would be like to be blind. Eyes wide open in the pitch black, the only thing that I can see are the little LED's of the computer, so it's up and off to another work of another kind. lonely contemplation of the days passing and wondering what to do with the next set of waking hours. There are so many endeavors waiting for the attention. They all build in my head until I can't stand it anymore, until the input is to great and it's time for a little output. Then the progressive enlightening process of finding the start and putting in the hours and concentration to make all those floating blobs of ideas into a tangible finished reality. Finished seems to be the problem lately. So many projects begun, but nothing finished to hold on to. I think it's a little cowardly of me to be so close to finished on so many things. It takes guts to complete that last finishing process to call something to its end. A major factor contributing to this problem is the fact that I am a visitor in another's space. Working with someone else's scraps of materials and utility so that you can afford your own has proven to be quite taxing.

But screw that.

I'm the lucky one here. I'm the one getting paid to get to know patrons, getting paid to do the grunt work. I'm the one in a space with unlimited access if I'll only get the balls to ask. I'm the one with a lifetime of exposure and a fresh approach. I'm the one with a loving support who kisses me all day and tells me just when I'm most beautiful and why. So screw this self-loathing and self-pity given to me by my father's father's father's excuses and reinforced by those that came before my sweet josh. Screw the notion that I'm limited by the length of my bones and the weight of my chromosomes. My bones can reach into tinier harder to find spaces than yours I'll bet. They are a little set of tools depending on their configuration, willing to bleed, and patient to be steady and become stronger.

In fact, I've got plenty complete. I've got the light art. And I've almost completed throwing away all apprehension before I proceed to live like I should.

The light art is by josh and I. This raku pot is one of my dad's. All light art is by Lunomni, the name we've chosen for our collabrative art. All of the images come straight off of the camera, no digital editing. To see more, please visit his photography myspace: myspace.com/acrossthehallphoto

These are what started us down the road of creating, and there's no stopping now. I can't have a normal job. I'm no good at being a drone, I'm always late and always quickly learn that I'm smarter than all the bosses and then it's really hard to give a rip. I'd rather swallow my gummy pride and fear and finish the pieces I start. They are all a part of my existence and my learning and they're worth their weight in criticism, praise, and appreciation.

Tomorrow I'll go to school to finish chipping away the last little bits of this useful but sometimes blindingly strenuous degree in the bane of my existence aka organic chemistry. Then back across the long basin bridge, home to the warehouse with no shower or kitchen sink for a lunch and then to the only place that makes any sense to make more art that makes none to nobody, not yet anyway. Alright, a lttle to nonsensical to keep typing. better quit before I'm any further behind and crawl in too.

peace in pieces as always.