TIME TO THINK OUTSIDE THE BOX
[OR A DISCUSSION OF BEING CLICHÉ]
I feel so cliché. I should probably, to be grammatically precise, write that I feel like such a cliché, but that seems insufficient at the moment. Thus, I feel cliché.
You may ask, dear reader, why? Why such a sensation? This may perhaps seem an unusual sentiment here on these electronic pages, at least from your experiences in the past. Perhaps my past angst has verged on the ordinary, my concerns a mite traditional, but cliché I should hope not.
Nonetheless, there it is. You see, I don't really know what to write about; haven't for the past week or so. Do you know why? I am happy, content, pleased; everything is good. That is why I feel so cliché. It seems unforgivable to be unable to write from this position. It goes against everything I have worked so hard for as an artist, confirms all the stereotypes I have railed against. Must I lop off an ear in order to provide myself some grief, thus prompting the words that do not wish to come?
Obviously I shan't do that; extremes are unnecessary, and extremities are rather important. But I still feel ridiculous. Unless, of course, I can find a way of making work about skipping about gleefully and having a ludicrous grin on my face. Granted it is a lovely face, but I doubt MOMA shall come calling for a photo of it in the next several days.
Of course this is not such a big deal; that is what fiction is for. It is not like I am not accustomed to complete fabrications in my work. I don't particularly believe in strict autobiography, but there is usually at least a seed from somewhere in my reality. What's the germ of an idea in this goofy smile that just keeps spreading across my face?
Ah, we should all have such problems. I have to imagine that sometime between now and tenure-time I will have a whole truckload of new ideas. If you had ever been inside the whorling mess that is my head, you, too, would probably assume new projects would pop up at any time, but at the moment: nothing, followed by another goofy grin.
So, for now I should probably go sit in front of a mirror and enjoy the lack of unremitting anxiety.
You may ask, dear reader, why? Why such a sensation? This may perhaps seem an unusual sentiment here on these electronic pages, at least from your experiences in the past. Perhaps my past angst has verged on the ordinary, my concerns a mite traditional, but cliché I should hope not.
Nonetheless, there it is. You see, I don't really know what to write about; haven't for the past week or so. Do you know why? I am happy, content, pleased; everything is good. That is why I feel so cliché. It seems unforgivable to be unable to write from this position. It goes against everything I have worked so hard for as an artist, confirms all the stereotypes I have railed against. Must I lop off an ear in order to provide myself some grief, thus prompting the words that do not wish to come?
Obviously I shan't do that; extremes are unnecessary, and extremities are rather important. But I still feel ridiculous. Unless, of course, I can find a way of making work about skipping about gleefully and having a ludicrous grin on my face. Granted it is a lovely face, but I doubt MOMA shall come calling for a photo of it in the next several days.
Of course this is not such a big deal; that is what fiction is for. It is not like I am not accustomed to complete fabrications in my work. I don't particularly believe in strict autobiography, but there is usually at least a seed from somewhere in my reality. What's the germ of an idea in this goofy smile that just keeps spreading across my face?
Ah, we should all have such problems. I have to imagine that sometime between now and tenure-time I will have a whole truckload of new ideas. If you had ever been inside the whorling mess that is my head, you, too, would probably assume new projects would pop up at any time, but at the moment: nothing, followed by another goofy grin.
So, for now I should probably go sit in front of a mirror and enjoy the lack of unremitting anxiety.
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