The Espresso Shot (#014)

How about some improv, stream of conscious writing? The word of the day at dictionary.com for Wednesday, August 6, was:

Taradiddle

(And to be frank, the latter definition —
pretentious nonsense
 — is preferred over the former definition,
a small lie; fib.)

A ridiculous little lie! That makes me think of misconception, a lost idea or meaning, insanity, idiocy, dense, empty,  vacancy, invisible, inevitable, consequential, unavoidable, brick wall, and finally to writer’s block.

***

The Inkling

It’s a misconcept — wait.

Please allow me to interrupt myself. It’s not a misconception that writers, artists, creators, dreamers — but doers, rest assured — of any and all kinds are all introverted egoists (we like to get out, you see) looking to somehow change and takeover the world one speck of ink — whether this pertains to writing or drawing or that leaking utensil in your breast pocket (And you just bought that shirt!) — at a time. Unfortunately, and this could be simply referred to as an opinion, sure all artists have the potential to harbor an ego just like Joe Blow CEO. However, once a creator, let’s say, starts writing for his or her ego, the piece of work turns to rubbish, and each following product noticeably goes downhill. (Reference the career of M. Night Shyamalan.)

Should the creative mind produce for their self, for the sake and joy of art and it’s raw energy and possibility to shock and awe and have people question you.

(Isn’t it fun to have people question you, but enjoy whatever you did, but they still do not understand why?)

The creative mind sits at a table and has their necessary tools in front of them: a couple pens (ink and type open for preference) and a pad of blank sheets paper. Let’s go cliche, and the setting generated is that of a cafe that was once an old library. The closer you get to the coffee bar, the stronger the smell of beans get; the counter is located on a raised section of the floor plan. The furniture ranges from mahogany to cherry and other dark, rich-bodied furnishings. We have a statue of a blackbird sitting on a top bookshelf. Paintings of Dali, or van Gogh, or Magritte, or a combination of all or more sit upon the walls; mind you, the pictures are in small frames and surrounded by black etched wood.

Beethoven’s “Piano Sonata No. 8 in C minor” (and preferably the second movement) plays overhead … No, wait. How about a Bach organ-driven “Toccata & Fugue in D minor.” No, for that’s too overbearing. Let’s just have the piano beginning of The Beta Band’s “Dr. Baker” play over and over and over and over on repeat to add to a dizzying this-cannot-be-happening-but-don’t-turn-it-off approach.

It’s a dream, but it’s not.

Everyone is speaking in whispers, but the whispers resonate — not loudly — and vocals taper off.

The table you’re sitting at, save the fact your pens and pad and preferred beverage is sitting (steaming) in front of you, has four chairs. Aside you’re occupying one, there is a hooded individual in front of you. Two beings, let’s say a man and a woman, occupy the other two seats and face one another. They’re arguing, but not violently. They’re speaking to each other rhetorically, laughing maniacally, and all this is taking place in slow motion. Both are well dressed. His cuff links bear the letter A, and the handkerchief she dabs her mouth with has a weighted corner with a stitched letter M. Oh, how nerves and inspiration stay married despite their differences. Yet, they have their similarities … quite a few of them, mind you. They stay together for your sake, not that they have any solid or familial connection to you, nor are they determined to ignite your ego — they’re there to drive your ego crazy, to help you break it — but this is for your own creative and mental health’s good.

You eyeball the two in follow-the-tennis-ball fashion. However, you still continue to stare ahead.

After your anxiety and your Muse clink tea cups, the fourth takes their turn. The hooded individual removes their covering to reveal your face, smirking lips and all. And the shock of realization is as chilling and breath removing as accidentally swallowing your cup of swishing mouthwash. And the bitter cool mint anti-refreshment erupts out of your mouth as a thick fog that covers your mirror after a hot shower. It can be moved out of the way with a simple swipe of your hand.

And this is what can be seen within your iris in the morning, when you just so happen to look closely for that split-second, when you only wanted lean in to check your (wet) face — after a wash — to see what wrinkles are new.

Wake up.