The Impossible Garden
& The Wildforest
ART & STORIES BY MARICHIT GARCIA
For the past hour I have been staring out the window. Except that there are no windows in my tiny studio so I am really just staring into space. Or figuratively, I am staring out the window of this immediate reality and into that wild galaxy beyond.
The weather has shifted from sunny to raining. Which actually lifted up my spirits. Because rain comforts me.
I’ve spent most of the day tidying up and doing chores. Also did a lot of administrative stuff – backstage work for the websites and shop sites and social media. Still no breakthrough into that bigger audience and market. The trickle has not magnified into a tidal wave.
For the past few days I have been slipping and sliding along that boundary to depression. Sleeping at night has been tough. I keep rattling my brain for feasible ideas to make quick cash with my creative skills. Also ideas to improve my chances of being responded to online. This morning I did my first video on Instagram, a clumsy trial of capturing my painting. I just wanted to see how it worked, and how it looked. I think I might do more but better-planned. Then segue into a poll of whether people will be interested to learn to make the simple florals I make.
I’m thinking out loud here. One resolution I made today is to only share quotes in my own calligraphy. It’s an extra step. But it creates a visual instead of just plain text, and it showcases my handwork, and has a higher chance of being noticed and responded to in the midst of an often mindless or auto-mode scroll.
I look like I am doing nothing, sitting here, not moving much, with a faraway (or maybe more of an inner curving in) expression on my face. Not being productive.
But you can’t see how much NOISE there is in my head right now, underlined by the nervous thumping of my heart. Thoughts crashing about, ideas shooting up and then burning down. The voices, all loud and heavy and pressing, laced with guilt or despair or anger. Once a while a streak of hope, like lightning, illumines everything and drowns all dark imaginings. There are well-worn paths of thinking I circle again and again, wishing for ways out, sifting for clues of a secret portal buried beneath all the rubbish.
Maybe I should stay up and not go to bed. Keep tinkering about, pushing pencils, weighing options. See what cracks open in the dead of night.
I have a really terrible feeling.