Just a small note to let you know I’m not going to write today—it’s an artist thing…you do what you do and when you don’t…it builds up, up, up so the next time you do, it’s a big ole boom do.
You know we creative types…only when you’re in the mood. If the urge elects to show no face, it’s every reason to walk away. I’m sure the scent of a rugged old pair of radio DJ earphones might ignite the skipping edges of an out of control imagination…but not today…I can’t do what the body wants to because I’m an artist and not doing is perfectly ok.
I’ve written on mountain tops, WWII desk tops, the top and bottom of a new year, been on the top of my game while tapping my toe to the beat of the blaring music while Michael Jordon played—I’ve even written while taking a ferry across the Puget Sound just to say I did while doing hoping to locate separated situations that make up reason to believe you’ve been inspired to do nothing more than push a writing instrument into a once living tree.
Nope, not going to write today—on strike, have every reason to set aside, feel no urge to splurge in a world of spin, spun and done—so please don’t expect anything freaky, sneaky or bizerky cuz what I’m finding out is that everybody does it! What? No way! No wonder people think I’m crazy!
Words in a word dump, trucked in thoughts and phrases that are vacated on a childhood playground now tucked away from everyday play cuz doing is now done with thumbs. Single visions like, “Out with the dog. Being friendly at the grocery store. Birds that coo backwards sound like they have the hiccups.”
Writing is writing and without there being fighting the goal is to no longer wear this on my shoulder—a blotted stain from a poets nib dipped in a bottle of ink then shot through the air on a dare to see what figure it paints when it finally comes face to face with something so incredibly neat.
But I’m not going to write about it…too much to do, not enough squeeze play in the world of self fame and glorified beginnings that seem bigger than life until you realize, its only you who seems to be listening, watching, hanging pictures you painted, planting flowers in a garden or redesigning the garage to look incredibly better than Tim the Tool Man Taylor.
Well, gotta go…I’ve taken too much of your time, got no time to write, write and write—besides being creative is such an unexpected sport…any day, Monday, Tuesday, even if it’s 2008, you’re never late because laying a single line on a pad of paper has this far out brotherly love cool feeling about it until poof it’s gone!
I mean, I’ve heard every excuse, blunder, wonder and reason as to why the measurements of what you do, see, feel and smell just don’t seem important enough to document. You know what it is? Paper companies haven’t figured out of a way to put advertising between your thoughts—a good old fashioned two minute timeout to pick up from where you left off while hanging off the edge of a cliff only your imagination can participate with.
What is writing? The art of thinking? The presentation of doing. The end result of connection, an inner vision so deep inside fish hooks dating 50 years dangle with worms still attached. Then poof from out of nowhere…Nemo shows up and takes a bite.
Can’t write about it though—that would require energy and Red Bull doesn’t create a can big enough to print out a purpose, the boss might be 300 feet from me looking over my shoulder, the cow didn’t jump over the moon and there’s been a tragic event on the doorstep of movie popcorn—they’ve run out of butter and that stinky, sticky icky stuff is the only thing I need to jump start a plan to put Stan in motion. Who’s Stan? Damn characters come from out the woodwork. Hire him please so I can get him out of my writing.
Wait! I’m not writing today. I did yesterday—a piece of something, poetry I guess, a jotted down sentence that became two, then three and it inspired me to sing. NO! Not during American Idol Premiere week!
It didn’t stop me because writing made me laugh like a kid and giggle like a silly Willie sitting in the principals office, “I got kicked out of Heaven for asking a question—God sent me back to learn a few more lessons. It was a quarter to four and I was knocking on Heavens door. He rolled his eyes one thousand times saying he’ll get me when the time is right…until that day I’m supposed to be nobody but me. ”
Breathing in…one then two lungs full of air. There! I’ve made it clear…I’m not writing today. Guess I could blame it on the cold weather but I’m a little late on that escape, gonna be in the 50’s today. Naked trees with no leaves? Flowers with no petals? There’s got to be a solid Perry Mason styled answer that will finally give me a solid reason to put away these fingerprints left on a page filled with my writing.
Writing is like carving—woodworkers aren’t blind, they see something inside those rings and cut through the impossible until they locate the voices that sing. Truckers don’t see traffic—their visions are locked on the destination making what they do the fine art of traveling. Sales reps mastermind ways to move up, over, through and around the word no…incredibly inspiring until they use the same trick on your efforts to make words stick.
Since the idea of writing makes my stomach turn today…it’s your turn to do the talking. I want to know why you constantly stop creating.
I’ll wait for your answer…cuz I’ve got the time. I’ve elected not to write!
arroecollins@clearchannel.com
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