“Honey, can I put cheese on Max the Chihuahua?” I asked.
“You never let me put cheese on Summer the Chihuahua.”
“Yeah, well, right place, right time.”
I have rejoined the Twitterstream, where it is always raining lawnmowers and assholes. While I scour the web for interesting content, I always try to generate my own.
We’ve all been there: a dull ache, a misplaced purpose, unending repetition at work or at home or both. Sometimes it’s worse: anger, dissatisfaction, depression. It’s a real thing, and it can poison our whole lives. When we fall into this pit, the poison ruins things that would otherwise be good in our lives: spouses, children and grandchildren, pets, hobbies, sleep, appetite, nature.
I’m not there now, so no inquiry is merited, but I do know a few people who are in the rough. I wish I had some good advice for them, but we all know that the way out is through, and I can’t go through for them. Be of good cheer? Fake it ’til you make it? Councilor? Therapist? Walk the dog? Write? Blog? Cry?
My friend and next door neighbor Jenn Nipps talks about creativity all the time, and how well it serves her, though seldom in equal portions.
It’s a delicate balance: talking about creativity instead of creating something is a lot like talking about cameras instead of taking pictures.
As I wrote this I ran across a couple of Open Mic Nyte buddies who are opening a new live music venue, Sessions Live Music and Alehouse, which is great: it is my view that more creativity begets more creativity.