Fuel Pumps

It was an old, large plastic container with at least 70 different colors of acrylic paint to choose from and I took it for granted. My dad had collected them over the years to paint his wooden iguana lamp, his flying divers, and his "scary" dolls. Growing up in a house full of artists, you never want for supplies.

A few weeks ago, I came up with an idea (posts to come) that required some paint. I was shocked that I didn't have a single tube of acrylic paint, not one! So, yesterday I took my Christmas money, myself, and my ideas to the store to start my own collection. I have a need to create, where I actually feel myself draining if it's not fulfilled. Using my hands gives me some sort of energy fuel for life, and the paints, needles, frying pan, piano keys and more are the pumps that get it started.

My mother shared this quote with me today:

The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: A human creature born abnormally, inhumanely sensitive. To them... a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death.
Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create -- so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, their very breath is cut off...
They must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency they are not really alive unless they are creating.
Pearl Buck
US novelist in China (1892 - 1973)

To mom and dad: thanks for providing so many fuel pumps over the years!