I’m showing at the Public Library again. July and August 2025.

It’s a bit strange to think that I have been writing one story for 25 years. Like my life over that time, the story has morphed to fit the lay of the land my path has traversed. In the early days, I was mentoring creative young people in a wide variety of mediums. Photographs of them were the seed from which The Adventures of Flash Meridian grew. Those young humans also grew, and went off to settle in their own sector of the universe. I wasn’t done, and so I adapted. My daughter, who was four years old when I began this project, morphed from the powerful little space girl to K.D. Bazinga, to the KD Head, to Flash Meridian’s daughter, living in the mountains of Olo. I had to find the new characters in my mind, and so I populated my own universe with a floating bucket, a humming sphere, a benevolent king and queen, and my pets, who have comforted me in that world and this one. They have been joined by many others who have flown, swum or walked to my doorway. I lift the iron latch and pull the heavy door open to welcome them in, as I welcome you, reader. As I, the writer, have gone through the transitions of life, my the story has also changed in ways I couldn’t have anticipated. I grieved the losses along the way, unaware that the best was yet to come.

For me, creativity is just being interested in something, and then responding to it. I do it in paintings, drawings and photographs, but that’s after I’ve been inspired. Inspiration comes from outside of me. It enters my brain through one or more of my senses. Then it is no longer outside. It’s gotten in. My neurons devour it, or at least respond to it. They move the pieces around, figuring out what they can do with it. My job is just to be open, and put myself out where I can see it in the first place. My brain is dissecting it before I’m conscious of it. I don’t try to be creative. When I do try to conjure some creative output, I find myself frustrated or disappointed. It’s like a seed that is planted when I see. It begins to grow long before it pokes its head out where I am aware of it. I’ve always done this. The more I do it, the less panic I feel. With practice I guess I get better at responding. I can only catch the fish that are in the water. I have to relax. The little ideas of today may be bait for the deeper waters of tomorrow. I’m my own inspiration and obstacle. My expectations both spur me on and get in my way. All I have is this moment to sit and rest, and allow the visions to loosen and flow.

I inspired myself this week. I went back and read my own words written over the past several years. When I write, I imagine an unseen audience out there somewhere, that will be moved to take a chance and tell their own story through art. I hadn’t really anticipated needing that reminder myself. Coming full circle like this really makes it all worthwhile for me. I picked up a brush and smeared paint on a canvas, just like I told myself to. Yes, it was a familiar theme, my go-to trees against a cloudy sky. After a few days of building up the paint on a loose forest, I saw unintentional fish in the branches. They just appeared everywhere on their own, and they made me happy. They swim inside me, and they wait for an opportunity to slither out my fingertips and onto the canvas. About a year ago, I lost my cat, Lempi. I loved her for 10 years, and felt her loss every day for a year. Recently, I met a cat at the shelter who had a face like hers. This past week, we brought Neeta home. Neeta had lived for months in a small kennel, surrounded by other cats, and hearing the constant barking of dogs. Now she has a quiet house to explore. She is clumsy, learning to use her muscles for running and playing again. She’ll wait by a closed door, for an opportunity to dart into the bedroom, or out into the hall. She’s like those fish, waiting for a chance to flash in the light as they escape my hand and enter the painting.

I’ve sold a lot of paintings in my life. That has been wonderful for many reasons. It’s been a source of income, which at times, has been very helpful! That is not the reason I paint! It’s hard to say exactly what inspires me to be creative. I think it’s an unearthing of what I’m made of. I find artifacts when I dig in the soil of myself. I can say things visually that I can’t put into words. Not with the same effect, anyway. I love words. But words aren’t brushstrokes, so they say things differently. Painting is a sort of therapy for me. A world of color where I get to express whatever I feel, or whatever I want to. No one gets to dictate what I do. The thing that inspires me to create, is what makes people visit a museum, maybe. I want to see the pictures! I can not see these paintings unless I paint them. I may not know what I want to paint, but I can still dip a brush into the paint and apply it to the canvas. That initial mark making primes the pump, and then one stroke inspires the next. This is also common when I write. I start assembling words in a sequence, and then it dawns on me Oh! That’s where this is going! I’m retired, so I don’t always have a plan for the day. I get up anyway, and follow my footsteps to later see where I went or what I did. Tonight I stayed in the bath so long the water went cold. Do you want to know what took so long? I read half a book… that I wrote! I was inspired by my own words. You might think that sounds pretty self absorbed. Yep. And I enjoyed reading what a previous version of me had to say. It’s like looking at one of my paintings, or thinking the thoughts in my own head.

Some people seem to put a lot of expectations and rules onto their art practice. This must work for them, but it turns me off. Creatively, I do what I want to do. WHATEVER I want to do. You see, creativity for me, means being me. Being free to be me no matter what someone else says I should do or be. If you want to be like someone else, then study them, and do it like they do. Copy them. But if you want to express what makes you unique, then do it your way. Be inspired and influenced by what you love. Recognize that you are a part of this universe, and your exhalations are the exhalations of the universe through you. But recognize that you are a unique manifestation or incarnation of the universe, and your voice is valid. Not only valid, but a necessary part of making this all complex and beautiful. We’re all made of the same stuff. I’m not asking you to be an anarchist… to rebel against every societal norm. Try it if you want, but you’re still a part of it, and everything you feel runs through everyone and everything. That may sound contradictory. Spark your spark. Express your expression. Be you. Be your unique self within an ocean of unique selves. You see things I don’t see. You feel things I don’t feel. I need you. I need you to teach me. To inspire me. I try to imagine the first person to create something. To paint on a rock face, or doodle an image in the sand. Holy cow! And the others who saw it. What must they have thought, seeing someone sketch their thoughts or visions on a substrate. They must have been blown away. I’ve heard it said that those early painters weren’t the artist, but the great spirit created the images through them. Thousands and thousands of years have passed, and I still believe it. Those images come from the same place. I think of it as the collective unconscious… the stream that runs through all of us. It compels some of us to leave our marks behind on cave walls or canvases. Images that will endure after our brief sojourn in these bodies. This is temporary. This ability to hold a paintbrush or pencil. Do it or don’t do it. Either way, this is your chance.

Eventually, Luuu asked are you ready to go to the cave? Flash had almost forgotten. The child would guide him. Yes, I am ready. Luuu took Flash by the hand, and they walked together through dappled light. The shaded parts were cool and blue, but the sway of a branch could ignite hidden crystals into brilliant beams at any second. Luuu walked confidently, and Flash felt safe, no matter how dark or steep the path. The boy sang while he walked, and sometimes said words that flowed from his imagination. Flash wondered what stories might be going through his grandson’s head, or perhaps what Luuu saw along the way that he had missed. There was a lot to take in! Giant crystals jutted out of the ground, branches ranged from deep blues and purples to every shade of green you could think of. Beings flitted about above and around them, and everything vibrated in the shimmering light.

(from The Adventures of Flash Meridian, Episode 122: Guide. Read the rest at flashmeridian.com)

I suppose it’s natural for creative people to branch out into different mediums and skills. Painting happy clouds and mountains is a start, but once you get comfortable doing that, it only makes sense to look for other artistic outlets. I might try a familiar theme in a different kind of paint, or learn to weld, weave or build pots out of clay. Trying something new is creative. It’s not easy. It’s not immediately satisfying, because your brain has to figure out a whole new skill. If you stick with it, you can add something completely different to your repertoire. The messenger of your mind is still the same. The work your hands create will share something because they are produced by the same artist. Sometimes I attempt to replicate something of my acrylic paintings in glaze on the side of a jug or bowl. Sometimes I just try to make a form that will stand on its own, and not crack while drying or being fired in the kiln. Either way, my pottery will speak the same language as my paintings. More closely related, are my paintings in acrylic and oil. If telling your story is the goal, then this branching out by using alternate art supplies is a way to expand your mind and abilities. Everything I know, I have discovered through my body’s senses. That knowledge is automatically put into my database, layered onto whatever software was in my brain when I was born. Of course my artwork reflects my life and my personality. Learning language allows me to attach meaning to the symbols in my art. Learning language also hinders my true expression, since I have no choice but to express the voice of the culture I was taught. I was domesticated, and I was lied to. We all were. I find that I can loosen the grip of those teachings, and slowly find my own voice. I don’t have to accept or believe the lies. Yes, the opinions of other people influence what comes out of me, but hopefully less and less. If I can release what offends me, think for myself and love myself in spite of the barrage of negative messages, I can grow. If I grow as a person, my art will also grow more authentic. My goal is to express my own view in my work, not something from someone else. This is why I say I paint for me. Allowing myself to be vulnerable in my work, in public, seems like the best way to speak to something deep inside my viewer. I was born with a spark, or flame inside me. Because I naturally had an interest in making marks or building something, I kept doing it. I was practicing without even realizing it. One day, it dawned on me that I could draw. I’d known it for a while by then. It was easy. It was easy to dismiss.

I have been working on an oil painting. I’ve only done one other oil painting in my adult life.