artistic arrest

I seem to be temporarily stuck. Artistically I mean.
It happens every once in a while and never lasts long but I have to admit that when I first realize that I haven't taken a photo or drawn a picture in a week or written a word in three days, my first ego driven knee-jerk thought is usually, "O God my Aunt Lee was right! I should have studied with the Jesuits and become a doctor!!
But then eventually I calm down and remember that the only way to get un-stuck is to surrender to the stuck-ness.
"Sure, creativity is your product", I say to myself, "demand has been high and so the stockpile in the cerebral warehouse is a bit low this week but you've called in the order and the delivery trucks will be here soon."
No pressure, no panic, no problem.

I'm pretty sure I know what brought it on this time too. . .
I let just a bit too much of the outside world in. Two weeks of those manhandled Olympic Games and then another two of the frantic antics of Barry & Joe & John & Sarah playing like a really bad remake of Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice.
Talk about an American backwater greasy spoon for mental indigestion. . .

So last Thursday after Dennis, Rhonda, Joseph and I got this week's issue of the BluePaper on the street, I called it a week, tuned in to a few mindless movies, puttered with my plants, ran my bike both ways to and from Cudjo, did some reading and, after a plate full of comfort food, went to bed early.
Has any of that helped? Who knows. . .
Frankly, as the keeper of the consciousness in artistic arrest I'm usually the last to know. But as I woke up early this morning I thought I heard eighteen wheels of inspiration rumbling down the neural pathways. Hopefully they'll remember my address.

click on the cartoon to enlarge