It feels like an age since my birthday post. A little more than a month has passed since I turned fifty and I haven’t written anything here because I’ve been panic signing up for and participating in every writing and art course, workshop or IGLive/Zoom event available in a desperate bid to give myself purpose.
The big FIVE UH-OH took off its beautifully embellished leather glove and gave me a fruity slap around the chops with it: about time and life and reason and any other existential crisis you could possibly think of. I’m still feeling its intricately beaded sting on my cheek. I’m late, I’m late for a very important date – with all the things I shouldn’t have been scared to do for all my life or hid away because they were ‘just a hobby’ or ‘just a silly thing’ – or just didn’t do because I wasn’t disciplined enough.
It’s May already. How? Jesus Christ life is fast, isn’t it? The feeling and the reality are at odds. I’ve been going to the art workshop in Gracia for two months. The first few sessions were mortifying because there were three other actual humans in the room including the teacher and they could see me and my work. Now I can’t get enough of that environment. Get me in there with the paint and the canvas and the chat and the music. Inject it straight in my veins. Let me slap water and colour around for two hours and watch me skip down the road on my way home afterwards. I can’t believe it had to take me arriving at a half century for me to finally say ‘fuck it’. Do it and get it out there. Don’t worry about what people think, that’s not important. It’s not arrogant or big-headed or full of it or pretentious. It’s quite simply you enjoying something.
*Feel the fear… and set up an Instagram page for your art. I mean, come on! It doesn’t get braver than that, does it? #LiveLaughLove #Brave. Feel the fear… and offer yourself for an Instagram live chat and read some of the words you wrote during the morning writing workshop you were participating in. When I say you, I mean me. It’s all a bit terrifying but I’m forcing myself past it. It’s deeply uncomfortable, but I have to do it. Time is ticking on. Read about art, see art, do art, eat, sleep, repeat. Put pen to paper (yes, I am that old), get it down. Why. Fucking. Not? Write nonsense here, write nonsense in your Frida Kahlo notebook, write nonsense on your dilapidated laptop that’s about to croak. Enter competitions. In the words of the great soothsayer, Nike’s marketing team: Just Fucking Do It. I might be paraphrasing.
I admire greatly those who know what they’re about from an early age, because that’s so far removed from how I was. I think they’re absolutely amazing. But I do have my new sense of urgency and that’s something. Time is very much of the essence and I need to do it all, so that eventually, I can at least be at peace with myself and my tiny contribution.
**I have not been given a definitive expiry date, although I understand how it may very much seem that way.