We Are Not Made of Paper

I am not made of paper.

That’s what they want now.

Simple sheets, thin, manageable, slick to the touch.

Printed only on one side, shiny and bold.

The image can become reality, they say,

Such a strange flip from the days when art imitated life,

But we are not made of paper.

It takes work.

This cutting and pressing

-or is that suppressing?-

to render ourselves flat,

to strip away the flaws that make us ourselves,

They called it character once,

remember?

Yet sun and wind conspire to undo me,

reminding me that I am flesh,

fresh,

caressing the roundness of solid form,

enticing perspiration and deep breaths with each stroke.

There will be no holding the pose,

I will leave none of my pieces on the editing room floor,

Life is only lived in three dimensions

or more,

through sweat and fumbles and the kind of laughter that makes tears spill

and faces crinkle,

with communion between our glances and the sky and the dirt between our toes.

For we will never be made of paper.

About The Sterling LIne

Where does art end and life begin? I don't really see a distinction, but I try to consciously live each moment with enthusiasm, following inspiration where it leads, being open to possibilities and exploring the boundaries of myself, the world I live in and those I meet. Though I attempt to tread softly and respectfully, I often get clumsy, carried away with enthusiasm ... Woman, artist, force of nature and mother... Lives in the SF Bay Area.
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One Response to We Are Not Made of Paper

  1. Jarrod C says:

    Interesting that once paper is crumbled or folded it can never be the same again just as we are shaped from our experiences. We exist, just in a modified form.

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