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Please, have a seat, grab a cup oвЂ™ bean, and get comfortable. My name is Barb Black, and IвЂ™ll be your host today. As the camera zooms in, itвЂ™s obvious that she is clearly focused.)Д«arb: Welcome to the Church of the Wayward Gypsy. A rather ordinary woman sits in the middle chair. (The Camera comes into focus on a somewhat dimly lit stage with three over-stuffed chairs. I'm either my own best friend, or my own worst enemy. She's my worst enemy.ДЄlluring, encouraging gypsy or repugnant, pessimistic hag. She'd be happy if my world was gray, gray cinder block, gray benches, gray imagination. She likes to ridicule she likes to tell me I'm fat and worthless she likes to tell me I have nothing worthwhile to say. Maybe she doesn't see why I deserve any good at all. She's not evil, not really, she just doesn't see why I should be deserving of so much good. She likes to stick out her figurative foot and then laugh when I've tripped and skinned my knee. That seems ridiculous, because she's all about shoving it down, and she is brutally unkind about it. The other one whispers too - the sound is like the incessant drone of a wasp hive, that noise that makes me feel like I need to swallow twice just to keep everything down. She wants me to have everything I want, everything I've ever dreamed of - she always tells me that it's all right there at my fingertips. She loves she's never petty she embraces everything life has to offer and sends it all back out gift wrapped. She delights in my wide-eyed wonder at things that most people take for granted. She takes me by the wrist and leads me, showing me beauty in the mundane. She says she likes me she likes who I am she likes my work she likes the way I am and the quirkiness of the stuff that makes me laugh. She knows I'll be embarrassed if she brags about me within earshot of anyone else. She likes subtlety when it comes to praise. She whispers in my ear, pushing back a stray strand of hair with the gentle touch of a lover's fingers. So I'm just not going to worry about it a whole lot right now, m'kay?ДЇriend or foe, now that I can do. Mankind had only recently learned to walk upright. Which means, that was a very long time ago. Sure, I came out of Algebra I with an A+, but that was back when I was a sophomore in high school. If I, in my very limited scope of knowledge, understand anything about the quadratic formula, it is that it's about balance. ain't nothin' like a decent excuse to turn up the volume on some good bluesy funk music. Really, you can't have balance if half of the teeter-totter is missing, y'know? Gunky. It's good to feel things, as long as we allow ourselves to really feel them, and as long as we use the feeling as a tool toward finding balance. If I trick myself out of it, I can't properly dissect it. The thing is, I'd really like to know why it's there, mostly because it's such an unusual event for me to feel like this.

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I know exactly how to trick myself out of this feeling. You know the one: 'only lazy people sit still.' Gunky. Maybe because I'm afraid? Maybe I fear that if I'm not standing here, waving whatever banner I've got in my hands, that I'll be forgotten? Or maybe I'm afraid that if I step away for a day I'll find that it's all been an illusion, that my creative abilities were just daydreams? Maybe it's just that annoying, rather misguided work ethic that was drummed into my head from the first moment I breathed air.

#Inkpad notepad exit tv#

Watch stupid crap on TV like the rest of the world does.' Why is it so difficult for me to say, 'Look, you don't need to be creative today.' Why is that? Gunky. Why is it so difficult for me to say, 'Hey, this is how you are today. And yet, for some reason I still feel the need to create, to write, to do something. I've sifted through prompts on other blogs. I've been walking by and/or sitting at this computer most of the morning, waiting for words to come, waiting for some grand revelation. It's just that I feel like I possibly slept through a few months and it's left me feeling like I've somehow lost time, lost opportunity, lost. I like the cold weather, and I'm all for the rest of the world not having to share the necessity of Barb Black in a tank top. Add to that the fact that it feels like October here in the Pacific NW today. My thinking and creative processes get all gummed up, gunky, funky.

#Inkpad notepad exit full#

When my head gets too full of too many things - all of which I tend to internalize - I get funked.