Crushed by the fig tree

On Being a Multi-passionate Creative

Crushed by the fig tree; the feeling of being a multi-passionate. Crushed by my excitement. Excitement found in all corners of life. It finds me more than most. What a joy, what a gift.

To dream of the whole, then find myself scattered in all its parts. I see myself everywhere. A reflection on the most opaque glass.

And what am I to do? Am I to lie? or worse contort myself into un-heavenly shapes, to conform to a narrow path. Suffocate in a closed box. I’d rather die, says the dramatic in me.

I am everything all at once, and if you’re reading this, maybe… you are too.

I’d say, to an extent, we all are.

Everything. At least not one thing. Rounded, fleshed out characters. Dimensional. We don’t have fine edges or harsh lines. We aren’t flat. We are the blur of time between history and future. We call it present. And I am present in all things. I am the fat that hangs off the skeleton of a body.

I’m floating on a rock in an atmosphere so vast. I fly around a glowing fire ball. Why should I choose? Life is so small, so long and I have plans of plenty, to fill it with as much being as possible. I am not a trope or a an aesthetic, I am a human being, with an emphasis on being. Being is life’s breath, and I will not hold mine. Not beneath a salty wave of words and should’s. I crush the should’s with the soul of my feet and feel no regret. In fact, I laugh, find a new corner to crawl to. Passion forcing the seems open. I don’t regret it.

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

―Sylvia Plath,The Bell Jar

A warning though, with such a multitude of interests, there must be a warning. Understand the root. Where do these interests lie. They all lead back to you, stem from you. Then to nature, love, fear, life. I use a range of outlets to express, to fill out the flesh of these interests. A painting of love, words for life and song for the beauty of a single water droplet.

Understanding this, understanding yourself, takes off some weight and adds to the fat and the meat of it. I am not scattered nor flaking. I am solid and knowing. There is structure. I am an artist, the only title I will take. Agnes Martin said it best:

“ I think that in order to be an artist you have to move. When you stop moving, you’re no longer an artist”

So I move, I keep moving.

And thats where you’ll find me, moving in and out of it all, the whole thing, staring back in a clouded reflection. Full to the brim. Gorging. My eyes soft and full of wonder.