"Not Your's Anymore!"
It is true that imagination leaves you when you fail to notice its hovering presence.
Two years ago, slouching with an unread book in my favorite cafe, I was staring blankly into the tea cup before me with untiring, unblinking eyes. I watched the little bubbles of froth dancing round and round in the cup, like gay kids on a merry-go-round. My mind took a trip to the land of letters and words and imagination crept over, tightening its grip on me, reminding me to speak through my fingers and recreate the magic in my mind through words. Hurriedly, I rummaged through my messy bindle for a pen and a notebook, creating my favorite ruffled noise. I flipped over a fresh page and began. No, actually, I did not begin. And that's what this is about. About me not listening to that voice in my head that lingered and pleaded to be created but was not.
Staring into the tea cup what I longed most to write was about the circle of life, of the waves and storms that come and go. Before I could write anything my attention was captured by irrelevant, nosy thoughts. The time I should've spent writing was spent dreaming absolute nothings. After a couple hours I realized what I'd done and waited impatiently for my thoughts to get on a wind chariot and glide back to me. This time I pleaded, but only to be disappointed. The void depressed me, walls that danced earlier stood still now. I packed my sad little bindle, left the tea cup half empty and ran out the cafe for fresh air. No, for inspiration. I found none. My thoughts had vanished.
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That night in bed I was twisty and twirly. Of course the ideas that visited in the morning were stubborn still. Somehow sleep overcame me and I drifted off.
A few hours into the dark night the storm in the tea cup resurfaced. The ideas fluttered and stirred me quite disturbingly, trying to awaken my sleepy soul and be recreated. My mind was in a frenzy to fumble in the dark for a piece of paper and pen but the body was weak like a paralytic. I gave in to the crippling weakness and drifted off yet again.
The next morning was a guilt trip I will remember forever with grimace.
It has been almost two years since the incident.
A day or two ago I spotted an artwork and a related writing titled "Storms in Teacups."
What?!! *cue, endless eye boggling and looks of despair*
It was by an artist somewhere in some part of the world who had probably, no, most certainly been visited by the same genie that visited me two years ago, the same genie I had conveniently driven off.
In her book Big Magic (this book is a wonder!) Liz Gilbert quotes -
"I believe that inspiration will always try its best to work with you - but if you are not ready or available, it may indeed choose to leave you and to search for a different human collaborator."
Notice how she anthropomorphizes ideas and makes the reader feel guilty of having sent a good human away without listening to what he or she had to say. Its like those ideas screaming at you from the other side, "Not your's anymore!"
Thinking of that incident still wrings me but I'm glad some good came out of it - an artist somewhere listened to their genie and published something to remember forever.
These nights I've been devoid of any magical or memorable ideas. And with Bell Jar being fodder for my mind I've felt a little too depressed. I've left a whole room in my mind for imagination to work in. I only hope he answers to my call to come stay.
Two years ago, slouching with an unread book in my favorite cafe, I was staring blankly into the tea cup before me with untiring, unblinking eyes. I watched the little bubbles of froth dancing round and round in the cup, like gay kids on a merry-go-round. My mind took a trip to the land of letters and words and imagination crept over, tightening its grip on me, reminding me to speak through my fingers and recreate the magic in my mind through words. Hurriedly, I rummaged through my messy bindle for a pen and a notebook, creating my favorite ruffled noise. I flipped over a fresh page and began. No, actually, I did not begin. And that's what this is about. About me not listening to that voice in my head that lingered and pleaded to be created but was not.
Staring into the tea cup what I longed most to write was about the circle of life, of the waves and storms that come and go. Before I could write anything my attention was captured by irrelevant, nosy thoughts. The time I should've spent writing was spent dreaming absolute nothings. After a couple hours I realized what I'd done and waited impatiently for my thoughts to get on a wind chariot and glide back to me. This time I pleaded, but only to be disappointed. The void depressed me, walls that danced earlier stood still now. I packed my sad little bindle, left the tea cup half empty and ran out the cafe for fresh air. No, for inspiration. I found none. My thoughts had vanished.
That night in bed I was twisty and twirly. Of course the ideas that visited in the morning were stubborn still. Somehow sleep overcame me and I drifted off.
A few hours into the dark night the storm in the tea cup resurfaced. The ideas fluttered and stirred me quite disturbingly, trying to awaken my sleepy soul and be recreated. My mind was in a frenzy to fumble in the dark for a piece of paper and pen but the body was weak like a paralytic. I gave in to the crippling weakness and drifted off yet again.
The next morning was a guilt trip I will remember forever with grimace.
It has been almost two years since the incident.
A day or two ago I spotted an artwork and a related writing titled "Storms in Teacups."
What?!! *cue, endless eye boggling and looks of despair*
It was by an artist somewhere in some part of the world who had probably, no, most certainly been visited by the same genie that visited me two years ago, the same genie I had conveniently driven off.
In her book Big Magic (this book is a wonder!) Liz Gilbert quotes -
"I believe that inspiration will always try its best to work with you - but if you are not ready or available, it may indeed choose to leave you and to search for a different human collaborator."
Notice how she anthropomorphizes ideas and makes the reader feel guilty of having sent a good human away without listening to what he or she had to say. Its like those ideas screaming at you from the other side, "Not your's anymore!"
Thinking of that incident still wrings me but I'm glad some good came out of it - an artist somewhere listened to their genie and published something to remember forever.
These nights I've been devoid of any magical or memorable ideas. And with Bell Jar being fodder for my mind I've felt a little too depressed. I've left a whole room in my mind for imagination to work in. I only hope he answers to my call to come stay.
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