An empty page; rough sketch paper, then black paint in arcs. I have no idea what my creation will be. I rip paper, and find I'm drawn (after all-day rainstorms,) to the bright images of peoney blooms in a glossy magazine page. I press the shreds of the hot pink pentals onto the page, then swipe them with the slick sticky gel on my brush. I let myself create a mess. Nothing makes sense. The images are incongruent, random, and incomplete. I add ripped bits of sentences I copied from online dictionaries about this word: wild (n) deviating widely from an intended course.
Then I talk on the phone with my best friend, my head and shoulder cradling the receiver, letting my mind travel elsewhere; letting chaos ensue on the page. When I look down and realize I've rubbed a lot of white paint onto the images a short brush, and suddenly a humming bird arrives. Itâ€™s flight path off kilter, angling down. This is my creation: a zig zag of wildness, this uncontainable, too-fast flutterer, almost like my heart tonight. When I allow the wild part of my brain to take over, creation invariably happens.