So, you want to be an artist?
All us artists do is hug the cactus
Tickle the wound
Dip into lava
Do we get burned?
Yes. We sure do.
We flow in fire
In fire we flow.
I did NOT miss you at all!
Why couldn't you stay in your neck of the woods - deep in my heart - a tad longer??
Ah, right. You only come out when you are summoned. And I am the one that did the summoning. Right. ~Sigh~
I guess I must still have a craving for little ole' familiar YOU.
I mean, we go way back don't we?
Back in elementary school. FIRST day of first grade, to be specific.
Maybe even earlier but I was too young to recall our times together.
But boy do I remember you and I at that hallway, when I was taken from one classroom an hour into the first day of school and lead into another classroom. 'Did I do something wrong? Why ME?' I thought to myself as my hand was trembling holding on to whatever teacher it was that angrily pulled me out of the first class I ever set foot it. It was probably just another day for her, but for me? For me it was my unforgettable encounter with you. A deep encounter with you.
I stayed in that school for only a year, and that first day had a lot to do with it.
Today you showed up without any warning, but with that vommitty feeling in my stomach. A feeling that doesn't go away no matter how far I'll try to escape a situation. Feeling YOU at a hundred percent. And with you come thoughts: 'I'm no good. I don't want to waste anyone's time. Who am I kidding?! I am delusional! I am a delusional pile of mess! What do I know about art anyways?! How dare I?! I'm a joke!' Sometimes I go to sleep with those racing thoughts in my head. It's hardly enjoyable.
I realize in addition to crippling thoughts, you also have another bag of tricks in your collection: you make me incredibly self involved, dear Insecurity. When you are around - I cease to notice other people altogether! When you show up, I am immersed in you, so much so, that my sight is completely clouded by your presence.
And the worst thing? There is no room for Creativity to show up when you run the show. I mean, a little - sure, you let her twinkle her pretty face here and there, but you posses me so much, that even Creativity, my bestie, has to take a back seat until your terror train leaves the station.
If I sound drained, it's because, well, I AM. YOU are draining me with you insufferable 'poor me' attitude! I mean, toughen up already! Get a grip! Stop convincing me that you have value in my life, that you 'make me humble.' No - you don't. Humility doesn't truly exist in a self centered insecure sack of chaos.
If you step out of the way a little... maybe you'll give room for Humality to show up, but your constant presence definitely doesn't invite any other characteristics to show up.
You are greedy, dear Insecurity, you like to consume ALL OF ME.
But if I can help it - I am not gonna let you. You take away too much. You waste MY time. Enough is enough, dear Insecurity.
It's time you step out of the way.
I wish I could title this 'ShameLESS Self Promotion'...
but alas, the more years I live on this planet - the less narcissistic I become and therefore the less I enjoy flaunting myself or my wins to the outside world.
OR... perhaps it is that the more years I live on this planet - the more shame I collect?!? I mean - what's wrong with SOME self promotion anyways...right?
I live in a self-obsessed social media era, and I am an actress for God sake... surely some self promotion is needed for my career, and maybe it is even healthy to celebrate wins and chase validation? Wait... who am I kidding... It is NOT healthy to seek validation anywhere other than from myself. No one can value me than ME, so what's with all that shame that comes whenever I want to post a picture of myself in the cruel cold world of the wild wild web??? Not asking for a friend. Asking for the ashamed little me that shakes with self doubt anytime I post a picture of myself online.
And I have a feeling I am not alone in this shameful feeling.
The digital formats of our time have reduced our beings to 2-d flat versions of ourselves, filtered glossy versions that we choose deliberately. We collect likes and comments and follows like they were fuel for life, like they were a drug of happiness, like they were actually validating us. But they are merely an illusion of being valued. They are merely sad reminders that we have been conditioned to chase perfectionism or some societal idea of beauty, or success, or popularity. We all just want to belong. Social media gives us the perfect momentary solution to our craving: a momentary fix for our addiction to love, our need for attention, a stamp of approval to our lives.
So there. My shame is yours. Your shame is mine.
P.S. Here is a shamefully posted photo of myself. Like?
So... I learned deeper meanings for many words during the height of the global pandemic. I learned about conspiracies, and fears, and anti-science rhetoric, and loneliness, and misconception. I debated with friends and frienemies online and in person . I've gained friends. I lost a few... And I was reminded again and again on the POWER OF BELIEF.
*An acceptance that a statement is true or that something exists.
*Trust, faith, or confidence in someone or something.
There is something beautiful to me about BELIEF. There is an acceptance, a surrender, a willingness to say 'I may not KNOW, but I BELIEVE...'
When it comes to people's potential and abilities - I rush to believe with all my mighty force, but when it comes to believing a tale, a narrative, a GOD - I may not rush so fast.
I may not rush AT ALL.
Beliefs are all around us - personal, collective, shared beliefs... I mean, society runs on belief. MONEY is belief! Money may be the only belief we ALL share across the globe. Oh, no, I am sure some indigenous tribe somewhere still makes their trades with rocks.
Point is: Beliefs are everywhere. Even the most skeptic atheist believes in their own hype or their loved ones' hype. And as beliefs are everywhere, so is the power or willingness we have TO believe.
If you told me
That colors are
Only in my
I would tell you
That you are full of shit
And that shit is a deep dark brown
Like the color of
And a log of wood
A Loaf of bread
And the soil after the rain.
I would tell you that
My imagination is
It's like the color of
I would tell you
To pay attention
To the colors of your
And the colors of your
And the color of
But you would shrug
And close your eyes
And walk away.
Because you can't
See any of it.
Hello hands of mine,
It's been a while, hasn't it?
I mean, I wake up with you every morning, and go to bed with you every night... but something in our relationship has been... strained, unacknowledged, missing.
I neglected you, dear hands of mine... I was tempted by my feet to walk around in new surroundings! In cobblestone streets, in ancient ruins, in hotel lobbies. I was lured by my lips to talk to strangers, to taste new foods, to laugh in delight. I was fueled in my travels to explore, to enrich, to immerse myself... Words were owned by my lips, and my ears. Jewels were enjoyed through glass boxes in museums. Art was something to LOOK at, not something to MAKE. I neglected you along the way, dear hands.
Alas, you never left me. You are as loyal as it comes, you hold my head up right this moment, you type in the keyboard right this second, you breathe new life in me with your delicate ideas. You draw me in to my inner life to write, to write, to write... and to my sculptural life to sculpt, and shape, and tangle... You hold no resentment, no bitterness for our time spent apart... no, you are simply there. Always grateful, always open, always inviting.
Shall we go make pretty art together, dear little hands of mine?
I think, yes, we shall.
You've waited long enough.
Yours body, your heart, your vessel.
Instead of a golden rule, I'll climb a golden mountain.
One that was built with a million threads, by hundreds of women centuries ago.
Women who have known much more than me of how the world works, and why flowers bloomed, and why mothers wept, and why the moon shines on us at night.
These women knew how to build mountains that no man could ever climb, no man could even SEE. Golden mountains that they birthed with their own hands. Like magic. Like life.
These women were thought to be witches, these women were thought to be goddesses, but they were no different than you and me.
They weaved their lives with golden threads and built mountains of empathy, or nurture, and care, of ambition and spite, of rage and love.
They built mountains for me to climb on, they built carpets for me to fly on, they built homes for me to live in. With their hands, and busts, and breaths, these women weaved life into these golden mountains, and years later, I, a mere mortal in the prestige of a woman's body, faces those mountains in awe, in jealousy, in doubt, in pride.
Will I be a golden one? I ask these women.
But they are no longer here to answer.
Maybe if I climb their golden mountains - I will answer for myself.
I am lucky.
Every day the sunset comes to visit me in my apartment's window
Every day a cat wakes me up with kisses.
Every day I wake up and breathe and live and smile and laugh and cry and feel.
I am lucky.
I am lucky.
A person that reads the table of contents page of a book
Is someone you want with you on a deserted island.
Is someone you want to be with in an apocalypse
Is someone you want to spend your life with.
Don’t ask why -
Just remember that.
Somewhere up in the air between Lisbon and Barcelona.
The aircraft is a small one, reminds me of my first airplane experiences, when the flight attendant acts out how to wear a seat belt and use the airbag in case of an emergency.
Like the old days without a screen for each seat.
The old days for me are the future to so many others that have come and gone and left. "How time flies..."
People say that but some times it really feels that way.
Other times it’s like the world stands still.
Here I am, up in the sky, in between time zones and places, and I am longing to play pause on the tape recorder. The VHS tape. The record player. The live musician in the street corner. The lullaby the cavewoman hums to her newborn.
Somewhere up in the air,
I think of Hebrew:
The language of my mother.
My mother’s tongue.
It's an eternal lullaby.
Even in old age,
We sing our childhood lullabies
On pitch and without forgetting a word.
Because Mother’s tongue is eternal.
The cave mother is our mother.
In April 2020, while experiencing her first ever global pandemic, Tamar Pelzig pledged to write something every day, even if it's only a word, so she welcomed to the world a daily blog to keep her creative writing wheels rolling.
Header Art: Daniel Landerman