where are the children?

for the past few days i just have not known what to write. nothing seems profound enough, pertinent enough, funny enough . . i read an article this morning in this week's new yorker magazine by john adams, called "sonic youth." it was one of the most amazing articles about the artistic process i've ever read. i'm in awe of adams' analysis of his artistic influences and growth. every time i watch my daughters dance and the music washes over me i'm consumed with the emotion of their piece. and then the music stops and with it recedes the higher ground. i continue with smaller, more mundane tasks. after reading adams' article i have to ask myself . . where is my path? where is my growth? what am i going to do? what is my art? what and where is my creativity? sometimes it's in the littlest things . . . . that there seems to be an aesthetic purpose . . even in the lopsided piles of books and files alongside the bed. and i don't think of my knitting as my art . . even though it is . . but it's really just an outlet, or a stop-gap . . i'm just confused with what paths to take, and i also procrastinate. time consumes me and leaves me a fish on the sand. and where are the little ones? i miss the little ones, the magic of the little ones. their wee ways last only so long, even though you guide the magic through. or try to.