I am not the kind of depressed I can draw through... an hour or so in bed with sketchbook confirms. Am wondering if perhaps this is the brand of depression that can be written through.
Currently, there is a frightening carnival of flashing red lights in my front yard stretching up the street a few houses, where smoke is vomiting up from my neighbor's house. She is, I think, the woman who I only know as She who in summer sunbathes in the small patch of unshaded grass in her yard. The first of three ambulances arrived, screaming and my heart missed a beat thinking about Papaw. Then the rest of the ambulances and a small army of firefighters and police arrived. I don't see the attraction in the group amassed to witness and worry. I'd rather stay out of the way. It's surreal; neighbors and press walking on my lawn. The ambulance nearest the mouth of the hollow is gone... I think she lived alone. Dog barks now from across the street- does she have pets? Are they OK? Some neighbors are retreating back to their homes.
Red parking lights diffused by car exhaust trick my peripheral vision into thinking I can see flames in my own yard. My stomach lurches.
Depression shakes itself into anxiety. I don't feel I'm allowed to leave my desk at the window, watching. Now the news car leaves. Bu and his brother and more neighbors come home.
I might take a bath. I might curl around the laptop and watch TV. I will call the clinic tomorrow; I'm low enough to find a way to get a prescription. It will be spring in a few months.
When I'm writing I think, this is ridiculous; I am a visual artist. This is all wrong, I'm pretending at it. When I draw and paint I think this is self-deception. Nothing new or particularly important is being said, I'm not as skilled as I am with words. Often I wish that I had practical skill, something useful and tangible with hammers or thread and needle. Potter's wheel balance instead of strangely formed sculptures: waxy snakes emerge from a collapsed woman where her hands should be.
But forever my paintings are books and my words are sketches.