I’m back in this healing place but only for a few days. It’s been 2 years since i was here last and I’ve brought all my moleskin books from last time. There are pages of writing and pages of random chord progressions which I’m looking at and wondering what it all means. Everytime I come here I realise that I’m more than a mother and I get very, very teary. My solitude so far hidden beneath daily mechanics. It’s a time where I think of what I’m here for, and I know clearly, and yet to do that I’d have to abandon my children and give up the rent/exist paying jobs. Thinking of the artists that have run away, abandoned families, chosen to not have kids or killed themselves because it’s all too much.
I know its a sorry topic and one young women will never want to hear.
Rosalie Gascoinge just seemed to meditatively walk, collect and wait til’ it was time. Sylvia, yep. Poor Sweeney Reed.
I suppose the selfishness thats needed to be a practicing artist has always been repellent to me.
Raising children is as real as it gets and as selfless. Its completely difficult to find a balance. Worse still is being in an environment where you’re taken for granted and hidden, when you feel people roll their eyes at another middle aged woman making desperate art. Always collecting privacy to add up to a song or an artwork, scratching for small moments to at least begin.One becomes increasingly more silent by design.
It’s a different space, two different spaces, both have joy and both are who I am but only one is my church the other my devotion.

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