arctic processing

in

Arctic blast continues its arctic blasting amidst mountains of shoveled snow and my patience for being creatively empty (brought mostly by it being too fucking cold in The Shed to think how I like to think – staring at random scraps of metal (or paper, or words) without a single notion of what I’m going to make until a semblance of potential comes to mind – for more than two minutes at a time) is at a low ebb. While it’s nice that I can occupy myself with writing things for this space and making my way through Stone and Chester drum exercises, I’d much rather be out there making shit without plans and batches and/oh hell I’m just being a bitchy old grump this morning.

While Ann Lamott would tell us that being creatively empty is a chance to fill up again, how, exactly, to refill that empty has been and continues to be the question: the ways that used to work no longer work. Perhaps these postings are part of that refilling?

note to self

in

Trying to keep this bit – for my money, the finest bit of wisdom in a book full of it – at the forefront as I navigate my own resoundingly unproductive (and maddening) creative period:

"The word block suggests that you are constipated or stuck, when the truth is that you're empty... The problem is acceptance, which is something we're taught not to do. We're taught to improve uncomfortable situations, to change things, alleviate unpleasant feelings. But if you accept the reality that you have been given – that you are not in a productive creative period – you free yourself to begin filling up again."

being my anything written

in

The empty continues and I've returned to this, especially today:

"The word block suggests that you are constipated or stuck when the truth is that you're empty... (but) if you accept the reality that you have been given – that you are not in a productive creative period – you free yourself to begin filling up again."

Lamott then adds, "I encourage my students at times like these to get one page of anything written, three hundred words of memories or dreams or stream of consciousness on how much they hate writing... ": these morning pieces are, as they have always been (I see now) in their way – some with more urgency than others – my anythings written.

Glimmer of hope, perhaps? I'll take what I can get.

Also: might have stumbled into something resembling if not acceptance then at least resignation – what's the difference between the two, I once asked my therapist; (shrug guy emoji), he replied): I don't necessarily feel better about it or less terrified (oh, those things I attach to my ability to put words to page) but I'm seeing the empty, dry well for what it is: an empty well.

That said, the question remains, as it long has, of how to fill the dried well back up. What brings me joy, a friend asked: my Switch, for one; the other, I realize now, is entering that period of, if not flow, then that time when the thing you've agonized over reveals the simplicity of its required realization (simple ≠ easy).

You may consider anything to have been written.