Sunday, May 19, 2013

To Censor, or not to Censor, that is the Question:

I sat down to write a very significant and insightful (read in my big girl serious voice) blog entry about how our inner critic, endless mind chatter, creative Censor (courtesy of "The Artist's Way" by Julia Cameron) if you will is killing us. Controlling us. Keeping us in fear. Somehow this poured out and I couldn't seem to stop. To stop would let the Censor win. And though the Censor wins a lot. Not today....

           As the sun blinds me through the blinds on this glorious Sunday, I actually hear birds chirping as the smoky dust from the barbecue pierces my nostrils as I sit in this warm bright room. As I adjust the blinds so I can see I’m temporarily poked by the suns rays through its splits. One orchid hangs limply as one is bright and perked outdoing the other. If only they knew it wasn't a competition. Many tongues are spoken on the air outside as I try to make out the meaning to one conversation only to realize it doesn't matter. Words are being spoken and shared among friends and families as dogs bark and engines rev on this busy street in Los Angeles.

Why does this orchid hang so low? Perk up little orchid. Don’t you know we are waiting for your greatness to bloom? Everyone can see it but you. Laughter. A baby crying. What for? I might never know. A wall with many windows crammed onto one building. Drying clothes, potted plants and filth decorate the little glimpses into the neighbor’s worlds.

 Where is this coming from? These words? This flow? This fear that if I stop typing my muse with get mad and never grace me with her presence again. This rabbit foot of luck. Me wanting to force this essay into a preachy sermon-blog entry-poem? What if it can’t be forced into nothing but this flow? Flow on.

The mustache beneath the potted plant smiles up at me as if he knows a secret. Let me in on it Mr. Mustache. Please. Pretty please. Isn't it beautiful that art doesn't have to be beautiful? Or make any sense? It can be pure play. Pure poetry of abstract nothingness. Why are things that mean nothing so hard for us to swallow? We feel hallow. When really it’s just like when we were in kindergarten and our drawings and our games didn't need to make sense or have a reason they just were. They existed. And it was glorious and that was enough for us. When did we start taking ourselves so seriously? When did life stop being so fun and become so “adult?”

“I’ll never grow up!”, my inner child shouts and stomps. But have I? Every worry or conviction that comes to my head drives me crazy but when I really stop to take a look at the absurdity of it all I can’t control my laughter. Quirky smiles of “Oh you!” as I shake my finger at my logical mind. “When are you gonna learn to let go and play like you used to?” Good question. When are you?

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