Gone With The Wind

Atlanta is foggy this morning. The scene from my balcony reminds me of a scene from “Gone With the Wind” toward the end of the film, when Scarlett runs from the deathbed of her long suffering cousin Melanie looking for Rhett. The streets are foggy courtesy of dry ice and the Hollywood movie magic. In a sense, it is surreal but actual. Life mimics art. Or is it the other way around?

I’ve been on a journey since the beginning of the new year. I’ve been looking for the artist who exists within me. Somewhere along the way, he got lost and he stopped making art. When that happened, he looked for other ways to express himself. Nothing seemed to work. There seemed to be a deep chasm between that lost artist and the person I’d become. How could I possibly begin to retrieve something—anything—of him?

Just as the fog of this grey day will eventually lift, I’m sure that the fog of the past several years will also lift. I’m not sure what it will reveal but I have a sense of hope and adventure lurking somewhere beneath that mist. Accompanying it is a corresponding sense of dread and anxiety. Perhaps the lifting of the veil will reveal darkness. It is a risk I must take.

Will I write? Draw? Paint? Start crocheting? I haven’t a clue. All I know is that he’s ready. I’m ready. Let the adventure begin…