creative means

art.jpg
Originally uploaded by peas on toast.

I’ve become quite obsessive lately about expelling my pent up whatever-it-is through various creative means other than writing. One cannot write about everything without it sometimes being destructive.

So last night I painted a picture on an unused canvas. It looks like a dog’s breakfast, hence the name of painting: Dog’s Breakfast. Then The Ant pointed out, rather admirably over my masterpiece, that it in fact looks like abstract straw. So we planted a needle onto the gloopy paint and renamed it Needle In A Haystack. Brush strokes, however haphazard, are unbelievably therapeutic.
It’s hung next to the TV cabinet.

I also played the piano [or man-sized keyboard rather] for two hours, relearning a currently out-of-practice classical piece I love, E. Poldini’s Poupeé Valsante. I used to play it perfectly – not a note or staccato out of place – and won a music scholarship for it at school. I also sang karaoke into my decibel-equalising echo-regulated microphone, curtains closed this time, for another hour.
I then created a pretty flow diagram (Dontcha love those? Like the Krebs Cycle in biology) on who I am, solutions to deal with my bouts of anxiety and sadness lately, and what situations I’ve been through before that’s made me the person I am today. I hung it on my wall, facing my bed.

I listened to Eminem and Dirty Dancing throughout the evening.

I felt so much better, painting, playing a musical instrument, writing and singing. These creative outlets for me cannot be condemned. They really work. I feel much better today.
I am ready to concurrently embark on a bout of spontaneous Friday night-eveninging tonight.