the artist the lover the observer the keymaker the magician

inspiration trickles in when no one is watching,
when you are alone
and quiet inside

It jumps over drains
and stirs clothes on clothes lines
it hisses like passing cars
and shines like street lights

It soothes like a warm bath
and engulfs you
surrounds you.

Inspiration is so much like love.

Thats not how i meant to start writing today.
These days I have no time to think about what I want to write or plan. I've read the comments people have left on the mail and haven't been able to reply. I'm sorry. I feel busy just being these days.

Todays post is about a conversation I had more than a couple of years ago with a recurring figure called J. I was listening to John Mayer while doodling on the newspaper when I remembered what J and I once discussed on our way back from a film festival in the middle of crowded local train. I could only see his bright eyes and spikey hair between the distance of one arm and the other of men in the Virar fast.
He said, "Are you an artist?"
I said, "I don't know. These days anybody is an artist. Thats what I like to think but what I hear is that an artist is actually one who practices art, does it with skill."
He said, "Thats rubbish"

And I knew I didn't have anything to support my belief. It was something I had come to believe because of assuming and trusting people, the ever-important they. Even today when I'm looking for work in a city as a designer and showing people my sketches I hesitate to say I'm an artist. Its so easy to hide being the amateur, the student, the experimenting kid.

I want to be an Artist. I'm on my way.

Although one question still remains, who is an artist? Someone who enjoys art, the daily life, the beauty, the peculiarity of everything? The detailer, the one who is sensitive and patient enough to carefully observe every minute detail and relish it. The one who can reproduce these details in his/her own way, with his/her own associations? Is the artist an escapist or a dreamer? Does it matter? Is the artist a trickster like Plato would say? Is the artist a griever for no grief? like my shrink once said? Is the artist a lover? Is the artist a well of images, bits of paper and music? Is the artist a dust bin soaking everything others throw away? Is the artist a collector of slices of the cake of life, freezing and capturing moments and making them immortal?

yours truly,
miss unedited.
this post is unedited not re-read
to maintain a certain flavour
of honesty and spontaneity.