À rebours

My creative juices have been boiling up like acid reflux in my throat over the last few weeks, and none more so than today. I'm back to feeling caged, feeling fat and sedentary and dying the housewife's death. Once again I have too many distractions. Too many reasons to put things off. It was like I was telling Wembly tonight on the phone that it's like learning to walk again when you've let your legs atrophy to brittle sticks. I've been reading Lisa Suckdog's autobiography Drugs Are Nice and it makes me recall the times when I was her age (and we appear to be roughly the same age) in the late 80's and early 90's and I was a compact fireball of creative energy, putting on events and working on art projects with S. and Joe and just dave, where even the ones which we planned that never got off the ground are still the stuff of legend from the sheer scope of imagination that went into them. And it's not like everything we did was all that ground-breaking or original, but that didn't matter at the time. It's like what Lisa says in her book, that it's not always important if it's already been done before, as long as it's the first time you've done it, because sometimes being a conduit for creative energy flow can be even more exhilarating that the final result. In 1990 I didn't have a television and I didn't have a computer. But my fingers were always dirty. My arms and face were constantly smudged. And I was never more wide-eyed and alert in my whole life.

Give me my regime again. What happened to the me that used to not eat or sleep or bathe until I got what was inside of me out? What happened to that reckless idealism that used to fuel me?

I don't want to go backwards, but why can't the past at least make an attempt to meet me halfway into the present?