“Husband” and “Father”, titles I am awakened to at 5:30 A.M. and vbefore anyone calls me “Artist”; Not remembering the last time I burned creative till dawn and slept in, day after day.
Now, coming-to, vision blurred, hips squared up to the heirloom cutting board where my mother once chopped, preparing to fulfill yet another highpitched and petulant request for PB&J to be packed neatly into a tiny pink backpack.
For decades, I forged an identity and with singleness of purpose, explored deep whims to produce precious objects and cultural capital.
Now, post global collapse and art dealer condolences I find myself planted in the persistent accountability of nesting and a remittent yet reasonable need for my simple affection, day after day.
As alien as it is perfect; As perfect as if every single personal and professional achievement, indulgence, rapture and regret each bent then straightened, now strengthens me for this daily ritual and in this moment I am equally present, as Husband, Father and Artist, to serve.