CREATIVE FUNK

Oh man, it comes in waves. It's cyclic and extreme. I'm talking about some indescribable creative funk. Inspiration is hard to come by. Wait...was I inspired? I watched a Hitchcock and got inspired. Too much work. Man, where did it go? It took off and it's out of sight. I'm looking. Searching. Struggling. Desperate for just a little taste of that desire, drive...that power that seemed ominous and physical. Metaphysical really. It would reveal itself in an abstract truth, then go and make for a fucking good time.

The power of inspiration can keep me going. Then it hides once again and I stare at the keyboard, canvas, paper, computer screen with the blankest of looks. Then depair as a hopeless would-be, once upon a time artist has nothing to say. Emptiness. Yep, an empty bottle. A bottle? A beer perhaps or something to numb the frustration. I'm my own worst critic. I loathe myself. I make myself sick. I disgust myself.

I'm proud of myself and all that I've worked so hard to achieve until now. Still, it hasn't amounted to much in the way of subsistence. I must work harder. I want to practice. I don't want to practice. What for? I have no opportunities. Or at least none that I can see.

I can't find it. Where is it? What is this creative funk. Inspiration, where the fuck did you go? Do I need to ignore it? Move on to something else. The Florida coast in a Hemingway novel. Huh? WTF?

I don't know what's going on. NYC streets. Night falls. Thinking too much. Head spins. A pinwheel. Got to narrow it down and focus. FOCUS!!

I used to be able to...