A friend recently asked if I had a passion (strong feeling or emotion) for any one thing...once a million pen strokes ago writing was my passion, an art that I thought I would never cease to participate in all my lifetime and yet these last few years I've not exercised at all. How does that happen? When does life become all consuming enough to drain you of the desire to do the one thing you were meant to do. I suppose four years in a dead-end job would suffocate any such notions, luckily for me that phase of subordination is over.
In the spirit of decluttering, I've been going through my books and paring down. Each book has a story unto itself, filled with memories of places, people and things...a nostalgic edge as it were. Some art fair or flea market, the dusty shelves of an independent bookstore in the city or Firenze, a friend, a stranger, a loved one no longer living...Now they are stacked into piles: cookbooks, video cassettes some with the shrinkwrap untouched, CDs most of which have been downloaded into iTunes and a library unto itself of literary anthologies and magazines. I feel like the cobwebs of my mind have turned to dust making way for inspiration and awakening a talent from hibernation.