Where The Sun Doesn't Shine
The horoscope has it right - I am happier when I'm creating something (anything, really).
I'm happiest when I scribble, of course, but I'm grateful to be able to doodle something, or find an idea for a script dropped onto my lap. But ever since I arrived on the island, I've found myself hopelessly - though not unexpectedly - sterile, cursed with a dearth of creativity and ideas.
Not that I'm particularly creative by nature, I must admit, but I'm used to having something just pop into my head which drives me - compulsively - to do something about it, with it. It can be as mundane as seeing a girl hug her boyfriend close as his motorcycle closely hugs the curve in the road, or it can be a memory that I'm reminded of out of the blue - anything, as long as something about it compels me to scribble about it, or doodle it out.
What is it about my being on this island that brings about such an utter, wretched, want of ideas? Is it this island, or is it me?
These couple of nights, when I take No-Name Doggie (preferable to her given "Snowy" - ugh) out for her evening walk, the full moon has been bright above our heads; way above, in fact, high up in stratosphere, unlike in Welly where the heavily swollen moon always shines so brightly and so hugely and so near you imagine you can reach up and touch it.
As I stare up at the moon and the gray dryer lint-like clouds surrounding, and periodicially obscuring, it, do I feel the urge to wax lyrical about it?
Do I hell.
The only urge I have is to comment aloud to No-Name Doggie, "Hey, with the moon so small and so bright behind those fluffy clouds, it looks to me like what your anus would look if the moon shone out of it."
Oh Euterpe, will you not pay a visit to me? Can't you see I need your help - so absolutely needily and desperately?
Or else please just shove me up where the sun doesn't shine.
I'm happiest when I scribble, of course, but I'm grateful to be able to doodle something, or find an idea for a script dropped onto my lap. But ever since I arrived on the island, I've found myself hopelessly - though not unexpectedly - sterile, cursed with a dearth of creativity and ideas.
Not that I'm particularly creative by nature, I must admit, but I'm used to having something just pop into my head which drives me - compulsively - to do something about it, with it. It can be as mundane as seeing a girl hug her boyfriend close as his motorcycle closely hugs the curve in the road, or it can be a memory that I'm reminded of out of the blue - anything, as long as something about it compels me to scribble about it, or doodle it out.
What is it about my being on this island that brings about such an utter, wretched, want of ideas? Is it this island, or is it me?
These couple of nights, when I take No-Name Doggie (preferable to her given "Snowy" - ugh) out for her evening walk, the full moon has been bright above our heads; way above, in fact, high up in stratosphere, unlike in Welly where the heavily swollen moon always shines so brightly and so hugely and so near you imagine you can reach up and touch it.
As I stare up at the moon and the gray dryer lint-like clouds surrounding, and periodicially obscuring, it, do I feel the urge to wax lyrical about it?
Do I hell.
The only urge I have is to comment aloud to No-Name Doggie, "Hey, with the moon so small and so bright behind those fluffy clouds, it looks to me like what your anus would look if the moon shone out of it."
Oh Euterpe, will you not pay a visit to me? Can't you see I need your help - so absolutely needily and desperately?
Or else please just shove me up where the sun doesn't shine.
posted by s at 02:46
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