Vocabulariat.
It’s not that there are no ideas. That would be bad enough, but no. The problem is that there are too many ideas. There are so many images and details and stories, so much to think and overthink. This is not paralysis; this is my brain running wind sprints back and forth from one thought to another, barely taking time to read the captions before moving on to the next one.
I have determined and written the prologue of Contraption and now wander through the messy business of making past of prologue, making paper of present, making presence of pages. I am going through unwieldy and overwrought security checkpoints between each sentence, trying to explain individual word choices to the underpaid, trigger-happy patrolman checking my credentials and suspiciously glancing at the bloodstains on the back seat.
It used to say deep blue rectangle, sir, but now it says blank blue space. There was a mixup back at the trading post. This is what I’m declaring. Please let me through. Please, please, please let me through.
And it is because I am surrounded by geniuses, because I am fortunate enough to create art surrounded by a master class of artistry and unconventional theatrical thought, it is because they allow me to call them colleagues that I continue to smash the exposed bones of my fists against the wall.
(Against the wall…? Yes. Against the wall.)
The spring-loaded sound echoing in my skull is a lariat lashing around my neck, and I wonder yet if I have the strength to snap the leash in two.
Creative Control 