Art as a way to build bridges


Canada is using art to build bridges with Syrian refugees, while the rest of the world builds walls… – http://wp.me/p2G6tR-3zIT

Advertisements

200 words of honesty


I have elluded talking about myself here, in this humble little blog. I’ve hidden behind reblogged posts and musical choices. Even in the fact that I put myself a limit of 180 words to write something approaching honesty, that says a lot about where I’m coming from.

Highlights from the past year: the end of my marriage; A Season of Faith’s Perfection we could say. I can’t and won’t write any further about it, not right now at least.

Tattoos. Submissiveness. Deceit. Meltdowns. Romance. Optimism. Peace. Fear. Sex. Self. Misunderstandings. Solitude. Love.Truth.

Valentina 2

And I wonder
When I sing along with you 
If everything could ever feel this real forever
If anything could ever be this good again

It could all seem like a blur, I feel as though I’ve lived many lives throughout a 12-month period. Sometimes it’s like binging on a specific movie or tv show, or like going through a  playlist or song over and over again. Learned to be innocent, at times. Self-aware, cynical too.

But here I am, trying to have a Jerry Maguire moment of my own. Not sure If I’m getting across. Just wanted to be naked for a moment. If only for a moment.

But you presume to know everything about me because you saw a painting of mine…


Sean: So if I asked you about art, you’d probably give me the skinny on every art book ever written. Michelangelo, you know a lot about him. Life’s work, political aspirations, him and the pope, sexual orientations, the whole works, right? But I’ll bet you can’t tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You’ve never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling; seen that. If I ask you about women, you’d probably give me a syllabus about your personal favorites. You may have even been laid a few times. But you can’t tell me what it feels like to wake up next to a woman and feel truly happy. You’re a tough kid. And I’d ask you about war, you’d probably throw Shakespeare at me, right, “once more unto the breach dear friends.” But you’ve never been near one. You’ve never held your best friend’s head in your lap, watch him gasp his last breath looking to you for help. I’d ask you about love, you’d probably quote me a sonnet. But you’ve never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. Known someone that could level you with her eyes, feeling like God put an angel on earth just for you. Who could rescue you from the depths of hell. And you wouldn’t know what it’s like to be her angel, to have that love for her, be there forever, through anything, through cancer. And you wouldn’t know about sleeping sitting up in the hospital room for two months, holding her hand, because the doctors could see in your eyes, that the terms “visiting hours” don’t apply to you. You don’t know about real loss, ’cause it only occurs when you’ve loved something more than you love yourself. And I doubt you’ve ever dared to love anybody that much. And look at you… I don’t see an intelligent, confident man… I see a cocky, scared shitless kid. But you’re a genius Will. No one denies that. No one could possibly understand the depths of you. But you presume to know everything about me because you saw a painting of mine, and you ripped my fucking life apart. You’re an orphan right?

[Will nods]

Sean: You think I know the first thing about how hard your life has been, how you feel, who you are, because I read Oliver Twist? Does that encapsulate you? Personally… I don’t give a shit about all that, because you know what, I can’t learn anything from you, I can’t read in some fuckin’ book. Unless you want to talk about you, who you are. Then I’m fascinated. I’m in. But you don’t want to do that do you sport? You’re terrified of what you might say. Your move, chief.