Down the rabbit hole: What happens when you go off the food plan

Today I met my colleague and now friend for tea and talk. Let's call her Braceletta, no, how about Bravadita. It is hard to choose a pseudonym for her: she's a subtle soul, deep with winding turns like a Colorado desert canyon. Brava and I met in a tall light-filled cafe and talked about our blogs, our half-written and non-existent writing projects, and our dreams for our creative futures.

I put a tablespoon of half-and-half in the bottom of my tea cup, and poured in the Morning Sunrise tea. Or was it Mountain Sunrise, I can't remember. It sure gave me the jitters, though. Great stuff. We talked for three hours. The time went by in a blink. I wish I had taken notes. We were in the meta mode, where the moment seems like a work of art. The intermittent sunlight, her oatmeal scarf, my delicately flavored tea, my too-tight jeans, her big brown eyes... it felt like we were in a painting. Or a documentary about artists who were talking about making a documentary about artists who... Or a sitcom, minus the laugh track.

When I got home, I cooked and ate breakfast, the usual four eggs and pile of gelatinous onion, zucchini, and beet greens. The combination of food at an unusual hour and that little bit of dairy put me into a drugged fugue. Despite the sunshine and my compulsion to update my blog, I went to bed and slept for two hot, hazy hours. I dreamed the silly things you dream when you are too hot: finding shoes that turn into skateboards, driving roads that change in mid-block and toss you into a new unfamiliar neighborhood, walking on the top deck of the Marquam Bridge, you know, the usual.

Was I drugged by dairy or overwhelmed by the roaring creative demon inside me? Much easier to blame the half-and-half than admit that I was prostrated by the pressure of my creativity. It's not a muse sometimes; it's a monster.

It's so much easier to listen while Brava bemoans her creative blocks. It is easier to offer lame solutions to help her bring her art to life than it is to actually sit down and bring my own art to life. Why is that? When I'm too busy to work at my art, all I do is dream about what I will do when I finally have time. Then when I finally have time, I do nothing. Now, while I'm waiting to find out if my dissertation concept has been approved, is a perfect time to write and make art. And what am I doing? Updating this stupid blog. Again.

I often say I'm a dreamer, not a doer, but watching myself ignore my creativity is like watching the self-centered parent ignore the demanding child. Ignore her one too many times and she becomes a serial killer.

One of my former sponsors would suggest I get over myself. Get a life and live it, Carol. The world doesn't care about my angst. Nor does it treat dreamers kindly, not when they are 55, female, and chronically malcontented. People expect artists and writers to make art and write. Otherwise, why not just call us what we are: bums, wannabes, and whiners. I'm going to peruse my vast library of silly drawings to find one to go with this post, and then I'm going to use the rest of the evening to work on one of my many unfinished writing projects. Progress, not perfection. Here's to us, Brava, the few, the proud, the creatively challenged.