I’ve gotten to the place I’ve heard many artists describe and there’s no return. Once the terror of trying to express oneself is met and overcome, the compulsion to live takes over. Is there any difference between the addict and the artist? How many artists have gone mad trying to express the inexpressible?

I crave being alone to create my art, which apparently is my life. I may express myself in words on a page. Or perhaps through the lens of my inexpensive camera. Sometimes it is by putting two friends together who really hit it off. Again and again I find myself having a moment, being right here, awake to something new arriving.

When did I quit being passive, waiting for life to enter me? Why do I choose to wake with the birds most days, stalk my life like a cat it’s prey?  How did I come to understand that it’s all play?

Like arriving on the deserted island, blue skies, warm sand, luscious fruit for the picking and nothing to distract except the fragrant salt breeze. And even here, a sense of being trapped. A longed-for freedom, barely savored, when suddenly I realize that they’re not coming to rescue me! I will never see a ship on that horizon.

And the panic returns. Temporary insanity! Here I sit, alone on my beautiful island.