Tuesday, August 24, 2004

Another wasted hour. A minute that has passed by that I could have spent writing something. I could have been creating or imaging or feeling or living or dreaming or experiencing life at its fullest. A second that I took a breath I did not need and killed a brain cell that could have produced a work of art. A nanosecond that passed and the synapses for art did not fire because it was not needed. Wasted time is what fills up my hours. Silent hours that I don’t dare look back upon. When I die and St. Peter or someone asks me why I did not fulfill my destiny I will point to those hours. Those minutes of staring at a wall while I thought about adding pesto to spaghetti. Those wasted seconds where I rubbed my eyelids for a pain that only existed inside my heart and soul. Those days of emptiness that reflect my existence are what stopped me from doing more. If I was asked to take them into account and catalog them I would make just one column and put my life in it for it was not wasted. A good portion yes but the single act of creating something worthwhile outweighs a lifetime wasted.
Today after work I was in a mood to accomplish something. I ended up tidying up the kitchen. I cleaned and cleaned and organized then went to my room and did the same thing. Still when I was finally finished I did not achieve what I wanted. I wanted to get the feeling of having completed something. The weekend I mowed the lawn and I felt like I have done something. The minutes I spent were not wasted. Nor were they spent in a creative mode though. Perhaps I did create something. An art form of circles and lines along the grass. Cutting some weeds one way with the weed eater but stopping and leaving a single dandelion standing. The art and creativity in everything we do. I could liken it to my driving. Methodical and controlled. Anyone can drive but watch them drive. The casual interplay between their hands while they turn the steering wheel and the slight movements from their feet as they press and depress the petals. Watch someone drive a manual transmission and you can see the lines and circles form. The quick dashes of power or danger as one jerks the wheel to dart into a new spot in traffic. A bit of shading as they turn slightly to correct their course or to avoid some small obstacle. The blend of music with their actions as they paint not with a brush but with their body and their car while they head to their destination.
I am not wasting my days though it feels like it. I am just blind to the things that fill up the minutes. It takes a trained eye and practice to notice the little things that keep me from achieving anything else. A wasted day? Nay! A picture of garbage to an untrained eye waiting the critic to view and analyze. Soon someone will see my picture and see the violence and passion built within. The anger and hate that draw sharp lines on everything I touch and the infinite swirls of compassion and love softening the light.