Mao’s Last Dancer

January 12, 2011


Here in the Midwest, a blanket of frigid temperatures (1F) laced with about eight inches of snow have pressed upon us.  Coupled with shoveling my sidewalk in just a hoodie and sweat pants compounded by not being more careful with public germs, I have contracted a horrific cold.  Yeah, 103F fever and respiratory goop both have forced me to become bed ridden thus I am finishing a long list of unread books. Mao’s Last Dancer was most inspiring story of a young boy growing up in Mao’s Cultural Revolution. The autobiography claims he was not particularly talented but a focused, strong willed, and disciplined young man with a vision. Li Cuxian had an amazing teacher who mentored him through difficult times. I have yet to see the movie however; the story of his adventures is captivating. He being a performing artist and I a visual one, I readily can relate to his struggles of wanting to just curl up into a ball and cry.   LOL  Granted I do not have Chairman Mao’s Red Army propagandizing me on hourly bases plus America could care less if I success or give up. Nonetheless, I enjoyed his autobiography and his strong family ties.

This biography has provoked me to press on and through the darkness of my creative block, though the enthusiasm has only been in my head.  I still go to the studio, putter around, and leave hours later with only creating a few greeting cards.  I am so ready to quit and give up and perhaps I have already done so. I read the qualifications necessary for upcoming exhibits, or requirements for competitions before falling asleep at night, ready to take charge the next day, which is only met with blankness. Of course being under the influence of dreaded sickness is of no help.  I feel like a strong, well-trained racing horse at the racing gate, snorting and roaring for the bell to ring and release me. Only the gate is wide opened and I cannot move forward, as if my legs are planted in concrete. My thoughts meander back and forth like the carriage roads of the Baltimore, which appear as the scenic route but only twist me into patterned circles. Perhaps this is why I am so fixated on spirals.

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