Sometimes it does not do to wait for inspiration

Sometimes it only does to feed or soothe the dragon.

My anxiety is tangible tonight. Building into a hockey puck behind my xiphoid. But instead of sinking to press in and through my gut, it is held there by this other buoyancy.

I am as close as I have ever been to a life that I want for myself. It is fulfilling and beautiful, the way the first ever object realized from your creativity is. Rough hewn, misshapen, and fallible. It never looks so good as in the first cup you throw on the wheel, the first short story you publish, your first ballet solo, or warbling rendition of a song you made up about your Nana. To have that running start -all that build up- finally materialize in the world as a thing you can acknowledge, and judge, and own, and share is such a purgative relief.

What an ugly adjective. But I wouldn’t have another. For me, and perhaps for others, it is no red carpet sound studio airbrush hair and make up simper at a host that: I just followed my passion. It. Is. Labor. Extruding life force mote by mote, one poorly elastic collision at a time. Pounding through my molecules and cells to seep out and discover -once away from the weight of my body- that it can fly, faster than memory or recording. And it must be caught and compressed and convinced to unite into one song, one drawing. It must organize, and form committees, and draft by-laws, so there can be rules. So it can know when it is done.

A creation must be forced through the flesh from its nebula, and once in our world must instantly adapt to its physics, and submit to your will to channel it into your medium. And then it has this relative freedom. Tiger in a zoo. It throws itself at the bars, nips your fingers, plays nice until you are close enough to pounce upon. It makes demands.

I am being pulled off-center. The right things are happening in multiple different directions at the same time. There is so much excitement and such delight that there can be so much to delight in. But there is a little bit of sadness, and some anxiety -the hockey puck- about keeping my feet. It is a Pollock and not a Mondrian. And there is the end of it. Beauty is many canvases.



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