The Art of Lonely Artists & Paper Airplanes

The Art of Lonely Artists & Paper Airplanes

[Back story: On Friday the 2nd I was processing life and loneliness, the draw to create and how it breaks me. God, as usual, was being a wonderful sounding board for all my confusion and hurt. Ultimately though, I have a hard time believing Him when He says He loves when I create and fling it out into the world. And all my questions boiled down to: Then why doesn’t my art catch? Why is it not good enough-why am I not good enough- for it to be caught? What good is a half-hearted, or rather, a not-quite-good-enough, creative to Him? How can it do Him, or the world, any good if the words are spoken, the art created, and left unheard, unseen? I realized creating is the only way I know how to communicate and I angrily asked Him why He made me this way, “But why? It’s so lonely. I’m so lonely over here. I want to be heard. Creating is not fun for me, it’s heart-wrenchingly painful. It’s not a hobby, it’s a lifeline.”
The picture that popped in my mind left me sobbing. I saw it all like a movie, and seeing as I can’t animate it for you, I’ll have to roughly jot it down, and hope you’ll be able to see it too:]

Art, words, pictures, poems, folded carefully into perfect little paper airplanes.
There’s a chasm and on the other side it is bustling with crowds and friends and towns.
The artist sits alone, creating then folding.
A line of pegs sit at the edge to the chasm with strings that connect to each plane. Many of the threads lead straight down into the chasm where the plane was lost. Others bridge the gap but the planes lay motionless on the other side, either trampled, neglected, or unseen. Those strings remain attached to their pegs, little feelers flung across the gap, left in silent hope. The threads hanging into the chasm with their fallen planes are eventually cut off at the peg, but only when the artist has enough heart left for a proper eulogy and grief.

She falls asleep each night on the ground facing the stakes watching with weary eyes for a twitch.

Supplies are replenished when needed; coffee brought in the morning and late into the night. Blankets are draped over her shoulders in the cold and they’re straightened as she sleeps. Shade is provided when the sun blazes or when the sky cries her tears.
And the artist creates on. Her blood compels her and her bones would snap under the weight of her heart were she to keep it all in.
So she keeps on.
Create, fold, tie, fling.
Create, fold, tie, fling.
Create, fold, tie, fling.
Grieve, cut.
Watch, wait.
Cut, cut, cut, break.
Cry, scream, straighten, breath.
Create, fold, tie, fling.
Fling.
Fling.
Fling.
Fling.

 

 

twitch-

 

twitch-

 

taut.

Caught.

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Spyglass [Poem-a-Day: 22]

Spyglass [Poem-a-Day: 22]

I pick up my spyglass
on this fine overcast day,
and raise to the horizon
to see what comes this way

Dawn thunders on,
pouring over the waves:
The crests of these grassy hills,
burning embers, they blaze

Dawn slips on by,
bringing with it noon-day light.
The sky is still a blanket,
and the birds are a-flight.

Dusk rises up
from the horizon to seize;
before her long purple gown
the remnants of day flee.

Night hushes us
with its midnight blue song.
The clouds slip away to show
the starry host and throng.

Sing through the night,
my darling, sing with the moon,
and I’ll raise up my spyglass
to the Right-Now’s tune.

A Poem in the Night [Poem-a-Day: 19]

A poem in the night
like a whisper on the wind
revealing the thoughts of the
innermost man.

Wake in the morning
to find those sentiments passed,
still the poem keeps on whispering,
“Look what we’ve found.”

Autumn Leaves [Poem-a-Day: 13]

Autumn Leaves [Poem-a-Day: 13]

Autumn leaves fall to the ground,
blanketing the earth in
soft yellow kisses,
like butterfly wings
or big flower petals.
What passed unnoticed in summer months
now catches my eye,
flaunts all its color,
and lays silently as
its last majestic finale.
Don’t wait too long to incline your ear;
their songs fade quickly,
masked by soft crunches.
But as you listen you may hear
that sweet final hallelujah:
“In death, my love, I loved you best.”

The Pilgrimage of Children

The Pilgrimage of Children

My hand runs along the cool plaster wall as if picketing a fence, but my fingers find only the smooth curves of this ancient structure. Its coarse, sandpapery texture just begs to be touched. It sighs and breathes, a living thing, but very dead. It’s like it knows I’m here again, and thankful that I am. But its just a wall I remind myself, and nothing compared to where we’re heading. Still, maybe the life on the other side lends some of its liveliness to this mud and stone. Maybe it knows I’ve come again, maybe it’s beckoning me further still.
Continue reading “The Pilgrimage of Children”