Sad Sack

This is usually how it begins: some interruption/event/mini-catastrophe/bender-gone-wrong and the creative slate is wiped clean, before it can truly blossom.  If you'd prefer we can correlate this with depression, although I feel said prognosis is a slippery-slope.  But the disruption rears it's head from that crawl space underneath the porch you never found the time to fix.  And if you find my analogy prosaic: fuck you.  Because The Disruption is a real, tangible entity.  My qualms with the depression-lumping--at least 100%--is I don't necessarily feel it's one's happiness, or stability per se, but your credulity, your focus; I could drone on, but the paramount factor here is the ardor and wherewithal to visualize your transformation, your improvement, your great leap in this field, this aesthetic--and somewhere, there's a connection, there's a trajectory manifesting itself around you, but it's not always enough, not omnipresent like we need.  And you're left with this vision, and for sanity's sake's hopefully percolating into some remnant of a belief, a creative ethos, and the layers coalesce, coagulate, correspond and gestate into the fecundate self-culture/self-reality you so desperately need.

Well kids, nothing's constant, and everyone's a little/lot fearful; in all my self-assertions and supposedly protean abilities I too find myself reprising the role of Big, Giant, Quivering, PUSSY.  These varnish-stripping proclivities and left-brain/right-brain civil-wars are what's prosaic for you earlier critics of my pedestrian analogy.  Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to go take a bath...

-m