The Ritual

Laptop WS

It’s early, dark and quiet. I move toward the pulsating miracle of technology that seems to own my soul. Best to get to work before I start drowning in yesterday, or worse, tomorrow.

Inspiration where art thou? Where is my muse? Creativity cannot be manufactured out of whole cloth.

To work. On the table before me a mountain of images, tapes, hard drives and notes. I stare. I whimper. I ponder. I exhale furiously. I wait. I trust.

Circling now, I spot a loose thread on this big burly coat of confusion and pull until its mysteries start to unravel. Aha! A plan! Eureka!

Like an unmade bed, you find the corner of the sheet that will bring order to chaos.

Now we’re rolling. Suddenly you are the conductor, maestro, if you please. Now you apply your thoughts, reactions, impulses and every life experience you’ve ever had and set it to your inner metronome.

You slap on your tastes, judgements, opinions and rage and bring it to a boil. Yes!

You smooth and tweak and polish and shorten and add and match and replace.


You second guess. You triple guess. You flounder. You give up. You get over yourself.
Round and round we go.

Wait! This is just me. What about them? Wasn’t thinking about them. Oh no!

What do they want? I had an idea, but now I’m not so sure. They didn’t give me much to go on.
They said to put something together and they would take a look at it. How cruel is that?

They’re going to judge me. Not just my work. Me! My id.The part of the mind where innate, instinctive impulses are manifest. How dare they!

What? They like it? A minor tweak and it’s good to go? Well, uh, sure, I knew they would.

Great! Now what am I going to do with myself?

Well, there’s always tomorrow.

Please note: I welcome comments that are offensive, illogical or off-topic from readers in all states of consciousness.

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