Scatterpated

In the next 30 seconds, a millionty one creative impulses will zip through the synapses, capillaries, cell walls, and muscle fibers in my body. That's what they're up to lately. Dipping and darting, vimming and veering, ricochet style, managing to hit nothing. Not a goddam, solitary freaking thing.

I am restless. Full to the brim with little blips of ideas and yearnings that refuse to converge at a single point. Not even to catch their breaths.

This happens to everyone else, right? Because it seems everywhere I look, people travel cruise-control style to brilliant creative ideas, one after another – the first organically informing and improving the next. Is it me? Have I not found the way to open my creativity? Is my third eye ‘just resting’? Is that where all the make-something impulse comes from?

Oh, and I’m whiny. I know. I get like that when I can’t figure out what to do with myself. And all the heat and the smoke and the blech and the ick hanging heavy in the air here in California isn’t helping any either.

Poo!

(Such a foppish exclamation. I’ve always thought so. But sometimes it’s just so perfect. In a league of its own, really. There is no ‘fiddlesticks’ in this world that can imitate what a good, drawn-out-oo ‘poo!’ and aw-shucks of the fist can do. I’ll stand by that.)

So me. Me and my cranky, my stalled, my furtive. We’ll be right here. Twiddling thumbs. Tearing off the sheets at night in a flurry of inspiration to go and do something already. Only to forget what that something was once we get there.

Yeah. It’s like that lately.