it really, really doesn't, when it comes to being original and self-confident. i often feel as if i am (subconsciously of course) co-opting the brazilliance of the ever-expanding network of true artists I am lucky enough to know.
i want to break free of this self-consciousness and regress to the raw truth of my early twenties, back when i ran away to mexico and found myself writing a gothic horror novel about rebirth. it's called 'the perfect love' and i'm revisiting it now, realizing that in many ways, my adult sophistication is merely a deceptive net of distraction, hard, festering shreds of my ego hanging from it like barnacles.
the fact that i can be too obvious with my symbology, too corny in my sensitivity, too wide-eyed for the lounging hipsters, is not something to keep hiding from.
the innocence of childhood is fraught with imagination for good reason, and toeing this line between creative originality and slick, baudy self-marketing is like cartwheeling on a cliff for a disinterested audience. maybe i will just cartwheel somewhere else for awhile and stop worrying about toeing that edge.
thanks ruth (friends since 11 years old now?!) for sending me the above picture
