A quieter morning. There is sunlight filtering through the clouds. Still cold, though.
No strange dreams or interesting conversations. Nice to get out of the house, breathe, maybe think a bit.
Mind is wandering, talons flailing, searching to grasp a stray thought in a haystack of fluff.
Talk goes on around me but nothing of it inspires me or calls me out of the quiet.
Design still inspires me. Inspiration should be captured, distilled, placed as a reminder to my eyes, a lasso around my dreams.
Do your own thing, she says in a low voice. She had never done her own thing and they both knew it. That she would throw that advice at this time was wrong.
Sparks but no fire. Smoke but no thrill.
I was wondering about my antisocial behavior again. I wear it as a badge of honor. And yet I crave more at times. Not enough to hand in the badge to wonder for a moment about how other people live their lives and what pleasures they find in the strangeness of small interactions.
This is what the failure of inspiration sounds like. It’s not about inspiration it’s about work. It’s about pushing buttons and creating words. Random, senseless words, but words nonetheless.
It’s the feung shui of this chair. I need to move, try a different area. See if it’ll be easier there.
Back to my old chair. It is cooler, less exposed. Fewer people that can watch me. More opportunities to watch others.
Snowmen throwing snowballs in a snowstorm.
Other pursuits call out to me. I speak in jittery staccato sentences. Not sure where that cork came from. It doesn’t matter, however. I am here to push creativity over thirty minutes. I have no expectations of where it leads or what if anything it means.
New paragraph, new possibilities. Same, craggily brain.
The good news is that during this unproductive half hour, I did not distract myself with anything except the staring into space and the watching of others. No checking mail, reading internets, drawing pictures, working. I held myself to my goal and pushed through the endless hopelessness. Yes it is consternating, but it’s my silent consternations. There are worse things than not doing anything for thirty minutes with the hopes of doing something.
I say that now, we’ll see whether after the fiftieth time of unproductive hours I’ll still have this quasi-positive attitude.
The philosophy book is improving. It’s a journey more than a treatise. One man’s search for the ultimate answers in dusty books and dustier gentlemen. And, yes, all his interviewees have been men. Not sure if this is a question that is not interesting to woman, or more likely, questions that are better asked of older, established persons, of which the last generation did not provide women the opportunity to participate.