And that's about the best I can muster in the way of creative expletives this morning.
I am doing what I honestly try to almost never do: I am writing because I am in a bit of a pissy mood, and I need somewhere to put it.
Seriously, whether it is my blog, or my facebook status, I really do try to live by the "If you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything at all" creed. (I am, after all, a good Southern girl, and this was repeated so often during my childhood that it is permanently inscribed on my brain. Plus, it's really not bad advice.)
In addition, writing for the sole purpose of bitching or complaining is just. . . too easy. It's a gimme. Anybody could do it. Want to bring people down? Want to point out faults in a world that is absolutely chocked-freaking-FULL-of-them? . . . a toddler could do that. It takes no effort, it takes no thought, it takes no talent. But. . . inspiration, ah! If you can write something inspiring, take the everyday or mundane and elevate it to something more, or spark the flame of creativity in those who read it? THAT. THAT is talent. THAT is a gift. And only THAT is truly worth your time.
But that is not what I'm striving to do today, unfortunately.
No, today I am just trying to perform a figurative "blood-letting" on my brain. . . to let all the poinsonous, infected blood flow out of me, until I am pale and dizzy with the glory of newfound health.
**(In an interesting sidenote, did you know I was UNABLE TO LOCATE a clip on youtube for the Steve Martin/SNL blood-letting CLASSIC, Oric the Barber of York??? . . . NOTHING. I find this baffling. . . . it WAS "Oric", right?)
So, back to my original point: Elvis-related expletives. Because SERIOUSLY. It has been a weird. . .
. . .I was gonna say "week". But I'm just gonna go on and put "couple of months" in there, because that is the truth.
Examples? Illustrations? Certainly.
I was sick through Christmas. Pneumonia. Pretty much literally slept right through Christmas. Missed all of it. Nightmare fever-dreams, the works. Really sucked.
Right on the heels of that, our household caught a stomach virus. Not fun.
Then suddenly I turn around and January is almost over and I have no idea what's going on.
Then it snowed a lot.
And, surprise surprise, my son is terrified of snow.
(Seriously. This was something I honestly could not have predicted.)
Won't play in it, doesn't want to talk about it, and freaks right on OUT if he sees ME anywhere NEAR it. Right on the heels of that, my snow-fearing offspring caught another stomach bug a few days ago. Thought he was over it today. . . but I was wrong.
Soooo. . . what this translates to is me feeling like I have been stuck inside this house for roughly 9 years. My hair is greasy, our house needs to be cleaned, I feel like EVERYTHING smells like vomit (even though Michael assures me that it in fact does NOT), I developed a migraine at midnight last night only to eventually flee into creepy nightmares about evil-minded kitchen utensils and a lecherous Anthony Bourdain, and everything feels foreign and fuzzy and filthy and wrong.
. . . I am reminded of Gollum's line in the Lord of the Rings where he says that he forgot about the taste of bread, and the sound of running water. Dark days. =/
In addition to this, I find that I haven't really wanted to write lately.
Nor have I wanted to paint.
Nor have I . . . really wanted to do anything.
I've just been crawling into books, playing with my offspring, and doggie-paddling through my days, making no real headway in any direction.
I am. . . "off."
(insert joke here.)
So this morning I realized the reason that I haven't written lately:
I have no interest whatsoever in anything I have to say right now.
Aside from helping Took assemble some truly genius and inspired train tracks, I have felt a complete absence of creative urgings. No points of view that I desperately needed to express. Nothing.
. . . it is troubling.
I'm not sure where I went.
I mean. . . I'm still HERE, obviously. . . but I think maybe I've just gotten stomped down into the dirt by illnesses and cat litter and life, then perhaps covered over with a fine layer of someone else's vomit.
(This is not a complaint about being a mom. It is an observation about how dangerous it feels to fear that "Mom" is becoming my only true identity.)
And I AM Mom, now.
But that is far from ALL I am.
I'm the girl that has kept a journal, in one form or another, for roughly 35 years. I'm the girl that honors humor above almost all other things. (If you ever have to ask yourself "Is she kidding?", the answer is yes. I am ALWAYS kidding.) I am a lover of coffee and costumes, books and creativity, forests and fields.
I'm the introvert that always feels out of place, and makes and paints clay flower faeries when she's in a good mood. I am a juggler of potatoes, a writer of bad poetry, a believer in moon-magic, and a former river-rat masquerading as a "normal" suburban housewife.
I am a baker of pies and a lover of cats and a wiggler to musics.
And so, what I'm telling myself this morning is simply this:
You'll get it back.
It's not gone forever, your creative spark.
Life is about cycles. It ebbs and flows, and I'll be a wiser and better person if I can learn to ride the waves instead of fighting the tide.
. . . . . .
Also: My spouse and I will be going on a Weezer cruise soon. (Excitement levels are VERY, very high.) There will be several "dress-up" nights during the cruise, and on the LAST night--- you get to dress up like a super hero. =D
So I decided to go as my OWN super hero, Danger Kitten.
Aside from a couple tweaks here and there, and some shoulder and elbow pads, here is my costume: