Thoughts – When Creativity Departs

What was I thinking about as I was walking home? It was good, I liked it and wanted to write it up. Then I forgot about it and I can’t get it back.

Could it be the wine? Unlikely. Memory’s failed me, that’s all. I’ll remember at 3 o’clock in the morning when I always wake up.

Spelled o’clock wrongly, and something else, which I’ve already forgotten, which I typed about 3 minutes ago, and is gone now too. What’s happening (went all Caps Locky then for a sec) to me – is data draining out of my head – or was it never “data” at all, just stuff, stuff to remember or forget as one finds or needs it? And what did that last thing I wrote mean? Pretentious, me thinks … and of course methinks is pretentious too – more pretentious than merely not knowing exactly what you’re on about.

And do I actually know how to use punctuation? Sometimes seems not. Like it’s a bit random. Like a dash gets included because there hasn’t been one for a while. And this “gets included” sounds like there’s a committee (spelled that right first time: booya!) in my mind which makes recommendations to a steering committee which signs off on punctuation to be used – like I’m not deciding myself, somehow – and notice “signs off”: the committee which doesn’t exist presumably approves of that sort of bureaucratically fuzzy language.

Now I really don’t know what I’m on about. Ah well. Enjoy it. Doesn’t matter.


Sip of wine.

Haven’t actually done that yet – still typing.


Classical music on the radio to soothe an addled – should that be “heat oppressed” (Shakespeare!)? – brain. Or calm the savage. Or just to take a man with very narrow horizons and limited imagination’s mind off what he could be thinking about. Debt collectors?! Yeah, but it’s not what you might think. What one might think.

Pretentious again.

Sometimes my back hurts. It’s hurting now.

Israel Folau to play AFL. WTF? Never write those ROFL or LOL type things. Had a go then. Decided that, having tried it, I don’t like it. The rule has always seemed to me that one ought to refrain from using one of those little shorthand texting acronyms unless it is the phrase you were going to use, a phrase you would and do use, and if it describes a physical action, that it reflects the fact that you have done just that – I don’t want to think that an individual who has written LOL or LMFAO did not actually laugh out loud and physically laughed their fucking arse off (which sounds quite painful to me).

Always temptation to edit when typing. Trying hard to avoid this vice as I go along with this. But it’s tough. Like ignoring an addiction. I like editing what I’ve written. It can be frustrating though. Sometimes the more time and effort that goes in the more you realise you’ll never be able to say what you want to say, or never say it well enough. Often this can occur. Sometimes it can seem impossible to express a thought in a way that will be understood by anyone who might read it. I have long thought that one of the greatest tragedies in life is not to be able to make oneself understood. It’s underrated as bad experiences go, being the epitome of frustration, but I also feel tremendously sorry for those who are unable to communicate or can’t do it well. That must be horrible.

Back hurting again. All day at work, and now here, again.

Am I all written out? Just a few minutes and my mind appears to be almost blank.

Nothing … well, very little going on.

There is the sound of the TV beyond the door and the laptop humming and now it feels like I’m going to write one of those sentences with lots of ands in it. Better not.

What was I thinking, as I walked home? Something good. Not great, but good enough. I was going to write it up as it amused me or perhaps diverted me would be a better way to put it. But it’s gone. As finally as death is final. Gone, to be resurrected one morning at 3am when I awake and the toilet calls, and Domino’s under my arm, perhaps, as she was this morning, and I try not to disturb her and silently applaud her for allowing me leg room as she surreptitiously jammed her capacious hindquarters under my armpit and allowed me all the leg room I could possibly want.

More editing and bad typing and it may be that this is about over.

Feeling spent now. Creativity, which had never really come to the races today – certainly it didn’t have its footy head on – has left the building. Unlike Elvis, creativity, my creativity, catches the bus home and lives in a filthy hovel where all manner of vermin share it’s company, and yet I still seem somehow feel incredulous when I need my creativity and summon it and it isn’t dressed like Fred Astaire, but instead crawls out of an alley, reeking of urine, with pigeons in its coat pockets. Perhaps my mate deserves a better home.

Published in: on June 1, 2010 at 8:08 pm  Leave a Comment  

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