(This car represents my soul at the moment. Big tree through it, bullet holes, rust, devoured by the universe itself, but also becoming the universe itself. Not unhappy with where it is, but only able to be where it is at the moment. Not stuck, but not able to start again.)
(But inside there is a blooming still, a warming up slowly to life, that song underneath things, that motor of life that keeps going despite all the frosts still coming, the part that gets up and makes coffee, pets the cat, the brain stem that says breathe, the heart that races when the crocuses insert themselves into the world with such umph and pazzaz that you want to clap just so they do it again.)
Saturday, February 13, 2010
I don't know how to draw, but after I saw Carl Jung's Red Book back in October, I wanted to try and sketch out some of my own "representation of the unconscious self." I've got at least a dozen now. This one is called, my heart.
I'm in the woods, in so many ways. But I'm with C and family and today we are all big real things. Like hearts. And mouths. And lungs. And skin. And arms. And breath and breath and breath.