Talked out and tired of sitting in my chair, I cleaned house this afternoon. Room by room, I cleared clutter, polished surfaces, and swept floors. How is it that so many cobwebs abound?
It didn’t help. I’m still fumbling for words. When they’re round and full or crisp and sharp, they tumble like water over rocks. Today, coherent thought and captivating images have dwindled — cracked mud where once water flowed free.
Over the past few days, I’ve been writing about the business of art, sharing what I’ve gleaned in hopes it might help some of you on your journey. I haven’t written anything for me. Not that I haven’t wanted to, it’s just not flowing.
Yesterday, I started a new sculpture, but didn’t return to the studio this afternoon like I’d planned. It wasn’t there, what ever it is — the juice, the spark, the mojo magic.
Through the years, it has been my instinct to avoid shirking the work for lack of inspiration. Usually, it comes back when I piddle around for long enough. Sometimes, what I produce is crap. I’ve learned to forgive myself those failures. They get lumped on a pile in my bone yard and occasionally find new life as part of a different sculpture.
Because I’m nothing if not disciplined, I go to work every day in one way or another. So here I am, chucking up words that feel clunky, misguided, and dry. My apologies. I thought it only fair, after my didactic recent posts, to confess my weaknesses. Among many, my favorites are chocolate, whiskey, and backgammon.
Least favorite are days like this when nothing goes quite as planned. This morning, while attempting to write (OK, pretending to write and tweeting instead) a bluebird flew through an open door and perched on my kitchen counter. What a wonderful sign of spring. Enchanted for a moment, I watched. Then, distracted by a conversation, I went back to my keyboard.
A few minutes later, I rose from my chair to investigate a loud noise. The bird had gotten trapped between a window and geranium. Frantic, it hurled its body against the pane. I reached in to rescue it, but it escaped my grasp, leaving all its tail feathers in my saddened hands.
As it hopped and fluttered around the house, my dogs joined the chase. Now it was a matter of life or death. After several failed attempts, I threw a towel over it and snarled at my dogs to stay back. Lifting the terrified bird, still inside the towel, I carried it outside, shutting the door behind me to keep the dogs from getting loose.
I set the bird on a patio table and waited for it to fly away. It just sat there, stunned. Eventually, I returned to my desk and pretended, again, to write. It wasn’t long before I heard scratching at the back door. Then, the door opened and one of my dogs came into the kitchen. She was smiling, blue feathers in her teeth. Focused on saving the bird, I hadn’t noticed she had slipped outside before me.
So now, late in the day and procrastinating, I have yet to write something worthwhile, work on a sculpture, or finish cleaning the house. I think it is almost time for whiskey and chocolate.
How was your day?