Wake-up Call

(Jesus of NoDa, seen off of North Davidson, on the side of Niche Market, across the street from the old Fat City, watching over us all.)


Hello, world.

I'm at a dip in my creativity, obviously.

My brain circles ideas, holds delicately the fluttering births of wants and dreams, but stops short, sighs, and stays dormant, nesting.

We all have hills and crests of genius and creativity, but it's hard to force or assume when a good moment, a good idea, will rise to the top. And I've been pensive lately, reviewing thoughts and memories and drawing up past feelings in ways that have failed to bring me to a pen or keyboard; ideas that are held instead of written, held boiling over as I struggle to finish work or clean the apartment or maintain healthy friendships. I walk my usual haunts and carry you with me: thoughts, dreams, hopes. Abstract and concrete, all centered clearly in the part of my brain that is still unreachable.

Today I am able to shake myself up and speak, the shadows of me chased.

"You're very awake this morning," my co-worker said as I climbed on my desk to peek over the cubicle wall and say hello.

I feel like I've been sleeping for days, so that is a deeper compliment then her observation meant.

It's turned into one of those rare warm days when I feel as if I am good at my job, that writing my book is not impossible, and that the horizon is straight ahead, unseen.