Thursday, August 5, 2010

Secrets Sleep in Winter Clothes

Today I woke up to an unexpected yet strangely pleasant surprise: rain. Well, drizzle, but the point is the sky was falling one drop of dihydrogen monoxide at a time. I have missed the rain. I very much enjoy seeing the drops of water committing suicide on my window even though it is a double bladed sword. Rain has a very important power in my intellectual life. It functions as a very strong fuel to my imagination/inspiration. I am completely unaware as to why this occurs, but every time it rains, I have an irresistible urge to submerge myself into art, my art. That is to say, I find myself overtaken by an enticing desire to create. It is uncontrollable, yet somehow I not always manage to create something worthy of being preserved. In any case, it is always good to experience this feeling because it allows me to remember and realize that this creative thirst and drive for some day being an artist remains alive even if it sometimes hides.
Waking up to the rain felt like the winters spent at my Alma Mater (Berkeley) that rolled onto springs because the rain never seemed to cease. That was a great creative period. It felt like a cold winter when one must cover up and stay under the blankets drinking hot chocolate while listening to soothing music, Sabina would be a good choice, with a book in hand or perhaps a notebook or a drawing board. Yes, that is the artist in me speaking who can create in cold days and remain hidden from the world for ages as not to spoil inspiration. The smell of the rain hitting the earth took me back years, and it felt like the so many summers I spent in the Motherland (Mexico) watching the rain fall from the window or running around with my friends under the rain to then go home to take a hot shower while my mother scolded me for being so irresponsible risking getting sick for a few minutes of enjoyment. I was just a child then, perhaps I knew better than to be running around under the rain in the muddy streets, but I did not want to know better. Those were days when I did not know rain would in the future have such a twisted inspirational power over me. It felt like autumn, my favorite season, because it rains year round over the conceptual river of thoughts that runs through my muse less desert.
Then, it stopped raining as suddenly as it had started and I was back to reality. 

Note: Artist does not mean public persona, but art creator.


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