rot
Dear Ciara,
I often crave creativity like a warm meal at the end of a cold day. It is the food that nourishes my body like nothing else, yet is ever-so elusive, like those constellations of dust that suddenly become visible when sunlight pierces through a window, only to vanish again when the sun passes behind a cloud. Creativity is always there, but not always able to be touched. A mocking force, at times.
Today I chased it, slavering at the thought of it’s goodness, but was rejected. Sun-kissed and star-burnt, I have sat for hours now escaping from my shame by exploring the fantasy world in Lynn Flewelling’s Nightrunner series and watching the videos of a man on social media who has started his life afresh in the Scottish Highlands. Both are symptomatic of the same practice. View lives that appear, at least on the surface, more exciting and creative than my own. Long for them. Feel sad. Don’t do anything to fix my mood. Rinse. Repeat. Regurgitate.
I’m blaming the weather. When it’s cloudy and drizzly, I become a shell of myself. I need creativity to shine on these sorts of days, and when it evades me, I turn to rot. I’d make a good mushroom, but then again, they actually work with the rot to make something productive. What am I making? This, I guess. Whatever this is. Another rant. Devoid of purpose and spiralling out of control.
The willy-wagtail outside is chattering in disgust and I think that’s what my brain would sound like if it were a bird.
Anyway, here is the song for today:
Little Anne Ladybird — Chypho
In fact, that whole album, Entomongaku, encapsulates my mood today. That feeling of being very small, of being a creature lost between the grass, searching for inspiration and only finding frustration. Do with it what you will.
Love,
The Gardener