The creative heart rises above the quotidian veil, and transmutes it.
Even when life calls; be it grocery shopping, or despair, the creative keeps an eye out. That scene with all the congested traffic, growling beneath scattered trees, near and far, fading from green, waving in yellow, drifting dry and swift and oaken brown beneath the walkers and the wheels. Ultimately, nature incases us. Count your blessing and treat her well.
There has been tons of land digging going on around here. I don't know if it's the electric company or what, but they are constantly blocking off cross-streets and corners. Inside the barriers lines are deep holes in the ground; hard hats down there doing who knows what.
There's all kinds of stuff laying around, though.... pieces of mesh and wire, and what was it I saw today?...... a metal spring of sorts; heavy, thick. Reminded me of the steel spring I'm planning to work with at home.
There's a lot of ideas in the scattering of junk. Whether it is tangible junk of metal and glass and clay and pigments, or everyday junk, or junk in your closet junk in your mind junk in your relationship junk in ...JUNK; junk in your huge collection of rationalizations and excuses and but he said she said I did you didn't... JUNK.... Even the touchy feely infactuation surrender to love, has junk... lots of old rose colored glasses ...JUNK
And what is the creatives job? the creatives purpose? To transmute the quotidian. And in doing that, comes the transformation of your own life... made to wake you up, in gifted intervals, to what it's like to give your junk away, to let it go to a higher cause.... Make something, sing something, dance it away. For a moment you know what being alive is like, where you are centered; right exactly where you are.
I have lived a long enough life now, to have collected a heapin' load a junk, inner and outter. Enough to create new worlds. The creative creates new worlds.
This is just me, myth maker, rambling.