Micro-Essay: Masochist
The drums beat with an open hand then a closed hand then to another open hand slap - boom, pop, boom…boom, pop, boom. My wings spread like a owl soaring high overlooking my inner heart landscape. The sun shines brighter after the looniness of darkness who ran wild and free. This action of pulling myself into another part of myself makes me a double agent when it comes to moving about the cabin of life. My fingers tap away blending into the natural sounds and smells of the coffee shop - the espresso machine firing off at its max effective rate a Ethiopia bean from the lightness of bitterness in the air.
My heart exhausted from the workload mentally this week. Always driven with passion, and grateful it is not a workload as a prostitute being taken advantage of, on the south side of town on the southwest corner of Zarzamora Street and Brady Courts in San Antonio, Texas. Exhausted by the practice of a craft that requires a lot of time inside my soul, spirit, mind, and heart. To call in our full presence and ask it to be present full time is a lot of work especially learning a new skillset, that leaves me questioning what drives me to sit and write and run? Both very selfish acts, solo adventures, that turn to a scalpel tool. Words turn to wood chips being chipped off by the scalpel onto the page that lacks blankness.
The work of an artist is exhausting and maybe that is why it becomes such a difficult endeavor, looking for the easy way out or the next best tool to complete the task, but the only tool is work. Neurologically at the most foundational level our brains look for the easier action than the harder one. To write four to five thousand words a day is an act of love no different as running for four to five hours back to back preparing for a solo act that gives no trophies or medals, and comes with very little slaps on the butt, pats on the back, and good jobs.
Now, what does comes is the fury of questions of why, a label of selfish, maybe this is a projection of the fight with myself and the page is my projection screen; another fistfight with human nature. These endeavors give love and attention to the masochist deep in my heart, a genetic blessing, one that is no longer a danger to me. Carving out the destructiveness from the eyes, ears, hands, tongue, mind, and heart. These masochistic tendencies are now creative and not a danger to myself or those around me, becoming protection and grace for my soul and spirit to offset the grit that is required to live a life of creation.
