When I cannot write a poem, I bake biscuits and feel just as pleased."
I found the above quote over at
, and it struck me that I would be up to my disastrously over-plucked eyebrows
in biscuits if I took Anne Morrow Lindbergh's advice.
It has been difficult to get find my creative mojo over the last couple of months. Of course, this coincides with my having to take a much needed step back from some of my responsibilities and an increase in my psych medication, but, to be honest? I do not usually lose the ability to write things down as often and as much as I want, no matter how many tons of ass I feel like or how much I might suddenly harbour the suspicion that They are using the wiring in our apartment building as a surveillance device in connection with everything we own with an electrical plug. Shhh, the toaster might be listening.**
The poetry always leaves me first when my creativity takes a downturn. I have managed to write a whopping three whole poems since January. At first, I was not all that concerned, because the poetry comes and goes like my dreams. For weeks at a time, I will be slammed with such vivid dreams that i am left tired, and then I won't remember another dream for the next month. It is only over the last four weeks that I have become concerned. I will sit down in the morning with the intent to write a simple weblog post, and the next thing I know it is mid-afternoon, and I have little idea what it is I have been doing over the previous four or five hours aside from staring at the walls. And then I have a nap, because not thinking is apparently incredibly taxing.
This afternoon, I went out into my mother-in-law's garden with a camera with the hope that shooting some pictures might loosen up my creative numbness, and it did work to a certain extent. I have a habit, when I am alone while taking photographs, of talking to myself under my breath. I quietly describe the flowers, the quality of old wood, the rough edges of poured concrete, and all the things at which I point my camera become lines of unwritten poems that only I can hear.
Those lines are all gone now. They drifted off before I could take the time to write them down, but I at least have some photographs. It has been a long time since I let my eyes wander over things and places in the tactile way that they do when I am feeling my environment out for shape and content within a frame. It felt good, a little bit like home.
In the spring, I ended up in the terrible cycle in which I would try to make one eyebrow match the other, only I would always end up accidentally yanking out one or two hairs that would throw them out of the symmetry I had so nearly achieved. I ended up with these thin eyebrows that waggled at me mockingly through most of the summer until they grew in. This morning, I screwed them up again.
** I don't often have the idea that the electrical wiring is really some sort of hegemonic They's spy system. It is merely a holdover in my brain's wiring from the insanity of my fifteenth year. I no longer believe in any real and deep way that the tea kettle is possibly a parabolic microphone.