Life is art’s greatest inspiration and its most deadly enemy.
This week, while I enjoyed much time with friends, soothed my inner pyromaniac, watched a Firefly marathon, and overall served as a courteous host, I barely cracked a book or wrote a word. And now, of course, I have the shameful task of admitting that for all the time I spent this week, none of it was recorded, and any ideas that may have feebly germinated are now, in all probability, toast.
I did manage to catch a toad for my wife’s enjoyment, however. And make the acquaintance of neighbors that we have been neglectful to meet for the past eight months or so.
So, while I can say with conviction that I performed the part of an upright American citizen with sufficient success this week, I failed rather miserably by letting my life get in the way of creativity.
And yet… and yet…
Lost things, lost time, lost inspiration – seeds of work yet unbegun.
I should very much like an anvil with a sword in it that I might pull out.
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