Adriene Crimson

For a few weeks now, I’ve been ready to cry at the slightest bit of depth.

Last week, I left a trail of tears in front of a sculpture installation at SFMoMa, as well as every bit of art leading up to it.
I hear songs that move me and can’t listen with joy any longer.
I see people performing double dutch tricks at parties and I roll my eyes jealously that I don’t have “a thing” that is all mine and then I want to tell everyone about these amazing girls who get paid to perform rope jumping.

There is a wild, uninhibited, confident, tigress of an artist stuck underneath the veil of an anxiety ridden, hesitant, nervous nelly with bloody fingers from chewing (and a bloody scalp from scratching). The tiger is no longer comfortable under this skin and her claws make my day somewhat uncomfortable in turn.

If only I could rip open my chest and let her out.

My sense is that 1) I need to serve others but I only have this thought because of religious teaching – I’ve served others and not felt the alleviation of this frustration which leads me to sense 2) I need to spend a significant amount of time creating.

If that doesn’t work, well, I’ll tell the driver to stop so I can get off this damned bus.