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The course of Thursdays is thus... on a weekly basis: >Finally at home, in the dark early hours >Freeing the old GE icebox of a dark, bubbly intoxicant >Chillout time with the 70's show and 24 >Fall like redwood at 5AM >much Luzianne to revive >Taking Care Of Business (it's alright) >a ride in the country >remembering where I come from, and who I live among >eventual fizzle of inspiration ...in short, a rut. Mindless routine is the parasite, which weakens the host. Which got me thinking about creativity. My hands have always been my best tools. Drawing, restoring tired or broken things, sawing away at a guitar, all manual. Once, the basis of my occupation. Now, I'm constantly in front of this digital cyclops. But I realize that this, too, is a tool. But kind of narrow in scope. Not that immense, progressive things can't be spawned here. Nor that it isn't the best thing that's happened to communication in a long time. Just... confining. Pen to paper, brush to canvas, airbrush to surface, sand to glass, hand to wrench, fingers to strings. All separate palettes to build from. And I miss them. Being able to afford only the usual programs, as good as they are, limits my scope of what can be accomplished, innovated. The world is bigger, the possibilities infinite. I need to use all of these tools. Not exclusive of one another. That's were potential lies. And then, there's passion... and I don't mean the little blue pill. Fire in the midsection. Imagination ablaze. Time passing unnoticed while big things happen. In all things. This sounds more than a little bipolar. But that figures in there, too. If it's all level, there are no highs of lows. And that's not living. |
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