I truly believe depressed spirits are the best parents of creativity. (I always, very irrationally, wished my upbringing had been just a little more traumatic, for I might have been a genius.) Today, I've given birth to multiple bouts of inspired randomness, and I intend to keep at it all week. I don't want to get to the end of another year and have to say with Lady Catherine de Bourg that "If I had ever
done, I should have been a great proficient".* I can do, I should do, and I will do!
This week I intend to read a little, make a little, and play a bit too. I'm thinking about buying a camera and a photographer friend, James Day
, has lent me one of his really nice cameras for the day. I don't know if I quite trust myself with $11,000 in my hand but I'm not complaining!
I'm going to get out the paint in a few minutes and without planning anything, see what happens.
And each day I hope to present a small piece of writing. I really do love writing, which leads me to the question, Why don't I do it more? Be gone, trepidation, fear, paranoia, for I'm gonna!Title:
PG for slight languageWord count:
I did a tiny amount of editing as I posted this into the entry. I plead innocence as I've not written anything since my last creative writing assignment in November. Stone me if you will!
Mother said my heart always did it when I became overexcited. I couldn’t remember. The only thing I can ever remember is waking up with a pain in my chest and cramps in my waist. The memory of passing out never stayed with me, nor the moments that came before hand, those exhilarating moments beforehand. It always ended the same. I would scream as I awoke.
“Why the hell can’t I be like the other boys!”
The screaming hurt more.
“Damn it mother, damn it!”
The tears burnt my face. I secretly wished they’d tie me somewhere before I had a chance to get on to the running track, but I guess they had the same unspoken hope inside of them as I did, that this time things would be different. I was the only boy in the school who couldn’t compete and I was a disgrace, to my teachers, to my mamma, and to me.
Mother held my head to her lap as I gasped for air, clutching at the loose stones and dirt that lay so close to my face. The sirens became audible and then they were lifting me into the van. "Going for oxygen", they said. I knew it. I knew it every time. Every single time.
The tears burnt again and the gasping rent my insides.
“Next time I will,” I muttered through clenched teeth. A jolt made me scream and the pain only increased my angry resolution. “Next time Trent Williams will reach the finish line!”
The pain began to die away, and was replaced with a dull, quiet darkness that grew until it was black.*Chapter 31, Pride and Prejudice.