Ruminations on air and space
I’m in a restless state, and it’s a particular kind of restlessness that I’ve finally been able to identify after years of trying to figure it out: it’s a mood that strikes when I’ve been spending too much time reading things. In particular, I’m talking about reading internet message boards and news sites. I can kill weeks keeping up with my favorite discussion sites, being amused at other people’s humor, touched by other people’s shared emotions, and irritated by their occasional idiocy. But at a certain point it’s just overwhelming to constantly be the recipient of communication—it’s tiring and even depressing. At that point, I get restless, and it’s only recently that I’ve put my finger on exactly why.
To constantly receive, and never create—well, it’s an imbalance and I apparently feel it at a visceral level rather than a conscious one. (I do want to acknowledge right up front the irony that you who are reading this are now slightly behind in your own subconscious striving for that same balance. And I’m the one who’s done that to you—sorry.) It manifests in a particular feeling that my head is too crowded with noise, that there’s an interfering hum of chatter that’s pushing out my own inner voice, and that there’s not enough air and not enough space inside for me to think any of my own thoughts.
You know, the Air and Space Museum in Washington is incompletely named: here I’m talking about mental air and mental space. It’s probably a stupid cliche that ideas need a little room to spread out in, or else they don't make it past the germination stage. Something patly metaphorical comes to mind about giving those young ideas room so they can grow to maturity. Let me really run this into the ground: it’s hard to differentiate ideas in the seedling stage; they all look much the same. With all the clatter of the world around me, it’s getting too loud in here. So it’s high time I stopped screwing around reading other people’s blather and started listening to what I myself might be thinking about.
As usual, in attempting the creative process, I end up thinking about the creative process. This isn’t a new phenomenon by any means. I suppose it’s like the old joke about telling someone not to imagine an elephant. Anyway, I’ve been feeling frustrated about how mercurial creative thinking really is for me. It seems to happen at specific times of day, under circumstances that aren’t easily quantified, and it’s incredibly fragile. To continue ramming my botany metaphor into the ground, it’s more of an African violet or an orchid than a spider plant. And unfortunately, I love routine, and my routine doesn’t allow for a whole lot of opportunity for true creativity. The minutiae of daily life are always first on my mind, and if they aren’t taken care of, they nag me and keep me from freeing myself. Maybe if I had a chef and a personal assistant, I’d be a more creative person—heck, my African violet would probably still be alive, too.
But then I want to be more optimistic about my circumstances. There are a lot more ways to be creative in life than just the obvious methods of writing, or designing, or creating art or music. At least, I hope so, given most people’s need of a paycheck. Few people have the time to break out of the daily grind to really do something wild and new. This is where I do have to admit that there is one thing I had better in childhood than adulthood: the freedom to be unburdened by basic worries about life needs and to be creative on a large scale. Now it’s far more restricted, with more of my time taken up by other demands. A short story, a song, these are rare and precious, and I’m frustrated by that.
And if I’m not really producing something major, why go for small-scale achievement? When I hum a song or appreciate a design or read a novel, I’m being touched by someone across a wide gulf. The people who created those things really achieved something in their creation, to have an impact that reached me at all. That phenomenon never fails to make me feel intensely jealous. Of course, reading a post on a message board or blog is nothing like that in terms of scale. Do those matter, then? But that brings me back to my restlessness, and the reason for it. By typing out these ideas, by spending a little time in my own head just sifting through some thoughts, I can add a little weight to my side of the scale and restore a little bit of balance to things. That helps. And maybe some day I can clear the little things out of my way and really get on to something big.
You know, the Air and Space Museum in Washington is incompletely named: here I’m talking about mental air and mental space. It’s probably a stupid cliche that ideas need a little room to spread out in, or else they don't make it past the germination stage. Something patly metaphorical comes to mind about giving those young ideas room so they can grow to maturity. Let me really run this into the ground: it’s hard to differentiate ideas in the seedling stage; they all look much the same. With all the clatter of the world around me, it’s getting too loud in here. So it’s high time I stopped screwing around reading other people’s blather and started listening to what I myself might be thinking about.
As usual, in attempting the creative process, I end up thinking about the creative process. This isn’t a new phenomenon by any means. I suppose it’s like the old joke about telling someone not to imagine an elephant. Anyway, I’ve been feeling frustrated about how mercurial creative thinking really is for me. It seems to happen at specific times of day, under circumstances that aren’t easily quantified, and it’s incredibly fragile. To continue ramming my botany metaphor into the ground, it’s more of an African violet or an orchid than a spider plant. And unfortunately, I love routine, and my routine doesn’t allow for a whole lot of opportunity for true creativity. The minutiae of daily life are always first on my mind, and if they aren’t taken care of, they nag me and keep me from freeing myself. Maybe if I had a chef and a personal assistant, I’d be a more creative person—heck, my African violet would probably still be alive, too.
But then I want to be more optimistic about my circumstances. There are a lot more ways to be creative in life than just the obvious methods of writing, or designing, or creating art or music. At least, I hope so, given most people’s need of a paycheck. Few people have the time to break out of the daily grind to really do something wild and new. This is where I do have to admit that there is one thing I had better in childhood than adulthood: the freedom to be unburdened by basic worries about life needs and to be creative on a large scale. Now it’s far more restricted, with more of my time taken up by other demands. A short story, a song, these are rare and precious, and I’m frustrated by that.
And if I’m not really producing something major, why go for small-scale achievement? When I hum a song or appreciate a design or read a novel, I’m being touched by someone across a wide gulf. The people who created those things really achieved something in their creation, to have an impact that reached me at all. That phenomenon never fails to make me feel intensely jealous. Of course, reading a post on a message board or blog is nothing like that in terms of scale. Do those matter, then? But that brings me back to my restlessness, and the reason for it. By typing out these ideas, by spending a little time in my own head just sifting through some thoughts, I can add a little weight to my side of the scale and restore a little bit of balance to things. That helps. And maybe some day I can clear the little things out of my way and really get on to something big.
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