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Rated: E · Book · Arts · #2244024
A blog about my roots for creativity and the endless hunt for ideas and motivation.
A bastion of inspiration.
March 24, 2021 at 11:05pm
March 24, 2021 at 11:05pm
#1007018
I've been suffering from a deep block for the last couple of weeks. It was rooted in my being overwhelmed.

I'm sure we've all been there, in The Land Of "There's so much to be done and so little time to do it in."

I've fallen a little bit behind with homeschooling my daughter . . . due to getting sick and quarantining in case of Covid.
My husband was diagnosed with Diabetes this week so we've had to overhaul what foods are kept in the house.
I've got a problem with pantry moths that I've been battling, valiantly, I think, but vainly.

That's really just a few of the things I'm kicking around in my head.

My mind can only hold so much at one time.


But after this kind of fall, there's always an upturn, even when I'm convinced that there never will be.

I've managed to get something written today, just a sketch, the roots of an idea and a lot of dialogue. Chatty characters

But what's gotten me back to it is what always gets me back to it.

I unplugged. I stopped checking my phone.
I bought an mp3 player so that I can listen to music, alone.
I lay on my kitchen floor with my dog and daydreamed for 20 minutes.
I went out to the river and listened to it sing.
I planted some seeds with the kiddo.
I moved my mind into places unfamiliar.

I wish I could always remember that these things help.
March 7, 2021 at 10:42pm
March 7, 2021 at 10:42pm
#1005988
Saw this image the other day of two skeletons that have been in this embrace for between 6,000 to 9,000 years. :


https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0ejlXqki5G0/WPRigz0vm4I/AAAAAAAABX4/Eh5bW1IvO9cgpmcGa...

I got to thinking about how everything else melts away until only the bones remain. The fragility and strength of life and death.

And I got to thinking about how the idea applies to how I think about stories. When everything else is stripped away, what are the bones? What connects and what is the root of the story? What is holding it up, in effect. Even just that, can be beautiful.

. . . They were only about twenty years old when they died. Twenty years alive and thousand of years gone since. They exist now as an echo of a memory, tangled up in each other.

I found myself studying the spaces between them just as much as I was studying their proximity. Shadows and light. The hollows of their eyes and the spaces behind their teeth . . .

Were they holding hands?

They have taken up a fair amount of space in my head over the last few days. And added a hollow ache in my chest from time to time. I can't tell if it's sadness or longing, that ache. I suppose it could be both.

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