Something wants to come out. I can almost feel it wriggling, as if it actually existed in the physical sense. This, however, clearly exists in a different sense. It’s persuasive. It’s impatient. It has convinced me that it needs to come out.
I try watching tv instead. I try ignoring it, or better yet–suppressing it. I’m unsure of what it is, let alone what it wants, and I certainly don’t want to have to face it if it does get out. The tv works initially. Plot begins to unravel, as timed jokes land on their marks as if thrown at a wall and stuck. It doesn’t take long for everything to turn flat. The plot is predictable. The jokes are trite. The lighting itself is rushed and outdated, the hue of factory filters everything. I turn it off to a nearly black but mysterious silhouette of me reflecting in the empty screen. I almost see this reflective me grin without me doing so.
I get up and pace the room. I often use this free association of the eyes, scanning openly to let anything hook my temporary entertainment–a technique that is useful against boredom. Intuitively, I assumed it could help me now. My eyes bounced from my shelves of comics, to the dulcimer, to the dry erase board and then finally to a book on the National Gallery of Art. I have only ever skimmed through it, but apparently past-me thought it smart to leave it visibly out for future-me to stumble upon. I flip through from the Byzantines to Giotto and onward where I am stopped in my tracks at Goya. I feel this something shiver inside. It almost whispers–it almost screams–it’s this sorta uncomfortable, impossible-to-place vibration that mimics language with ambiguous meaning, saying nothing, but yet… something.
I close the book. The deep haunting blues and distorted proportions still float and linger in my mind’s eyes. There’s potency found in this wrestling of harmony that tries to unite the sky with the ground, as Goya clearly struggles to bind his soul with the matter of flesh. It was clear I was hooked as my mind bounced from metaphors, hyperboles, and dramatic irony. It had possession of my perceptions. It was now manipulating my projections and interpretations with large strokes and potent connections.
It’s persuasive. It’s impatient… I look back around the room. Everything seems changed. The dulcimer looks alive. The djembe begins to hum inaudibly. The white board glows with a deep mauve of potential, calling out–no–reaching out. I close my eyes and there IT is. It had found its language and now demanded my intent. I stared at the mauve potential of the white board. It is there now. My fingers self sufficiently locate a marker.
It’s time and I resign to inspiration.
