I'm kind of not sure what's going on with me. Perhaps it's a pseudo-corporate rebellion, a compulsion or obsession. All I want to do is listen to words of Trent Reznor and look at the art of Chuck Connelly I long to buy. When my hair grows out, I totally want him to do a portrait of me. If you are familiar with his art, you'll know there's no vanity in that desire. No telling what the end result would be, and that's the part I like best. (And, if you're still wondering what to get me for Christmas, there's another idea.)
Maybe I'm tapping a different creative vein. Since I'm stuck in re-writing purgatory right now, I can't move on to something new. This isn't a bad thing. Not this time. It's actually fantabulous. My "baby" is getting some attention, so she needs to be nipped and tucked. Hollywood likes it tight, you know. But, that means my creative brain can't move forward. It's revving in neutral, wheels spinning, and I'm beginning to jones. My right brain needs a fix, and bad. Picture Ewan McGregor in "Trainspotting". Not the nude scenes, but the part when he's going through heroin withdrawals. Not the worst toilet in Scotland scene, the one with the creepy creeping baby. Well, Ewan-as-Renton writhing in the bed is my creative lobe aching to move on to something new, but minus the profuse sweating and awful wallpaper.
Two more stories are brewing in my brain, and I've had to press pause. There's nothing worse than that. It's like cutting off circulation to a limb. The creative equivalent of all-dress-up-and-no-place-to-go or blue balls. It's pathetic. And you begin to panic because you are afraid that when you go to reach for it, it will be gone. You'll catch a glimpse of its back as it walks away from you, holding its middle finger high. Therefore, you can't let it all go. You become something of a "chippy", using just enough not to get sick. Because I can't tap the vein I want or give it what it needs, I've started using Reznor and Connelly as my Methadone. Their art is so visceral I feel like I am in the creative process when I listen to it or look at it. It's kind of groovy. Though, listening to Nine Inch Nails after midnight isn't highly recommended. It's like having a venti-triple-shot latte. The nights have been productive, but the mornings are rough.
With Trent and Chuck serving as surrogate mothers for my next two pieces, I'm not sure how they are going to turn out. I hope half as eloquent and interesting as those two gents are. But, I think the romantic-comedy in the hopper will be a tad outside the box.