I like to refer back to this excerpt from W.S. Merwin’s “Berryman": every now and again:
“I had hardly begun to read
I asked how can you ever be sure
that what you write is really
any good at all and he said you can’t
you can’t you can never be sure
you die without knowing
whether anything you wrote was any good
if you have to be sure don't write"
These words ring, like a gong, like the wake-up call one longs for.
As a photographer, as a writer, as one who plays one bass string every night, up and down the frets: I have QUIT all three of these at one time and another, each for a long stretch of time. As if these acts never existed. No music, no words, no images. Perhaps it was because I wondered whether what I did was any good and why bother. Perhaps those parts of me were dead and simply left behind unnoticed until resurrected.
For the past three years I have been sitting in my front porch living room garden office studio, editing images that I see destined to hang in people's homes, phrasing words perfect for the book I will never write, and composing blues riffs that sometimes flow down Catherine Street., here in Key West.
Into to my 59th year, it's a life I write in my head, which I practice on the porch. I don’t have to be sure or unsure. I don't have to *be* anything. But I will.
Thank you for your visit to Mikalogue. The links in the top bar will assist your navigation.
All the best to you and those you love, Michele