Quieting the Creative Monkeys

I meant to write tonight about the inability to “quiet the creative monkeys” in the mind, as Carla commented on Jeff in Top Chef New York.

I meant to write tonight about the inability to quiet the creative monkeys and whether or not that was a bad thing.

I meant to write tonight about the inability to quiet the creative monkeys and that I resented the need to sleep, the need to nurse myself back to health because the creative monkeys belong to me.

I meant to write tonight about the inability to quiet the creative monkeys because that would be ending the best part of me.

But since I began to write, just moments ago, I happened across a song that has been lying in wait for me for at least a year now. Why I found her now, I cannot attribute to coincidence. Death is never far from my mind, and recent and future events and thoughts about suddenness versus lengths of pain drawn out over years.

I feel as if I should be comforted by the understanding that life moves on endlessly, heedless of any pain, time cannot stop. The fear of being forgotten would be human, but that’s not what I’m feeling now.

I wish, when I die, my body would be turned to glass, fragile veins and soft, smooth curves illuminated in the sunlight. Stormy blue eyes tinged with gold turned to seemingly cool globes of glass that warm beneath your fingers.

I suppose the questions in my mind when this song found me after lying dormant in my desk for so many moons. The questions revolve around pain, and the point of living – particularly the point of living as we live. The sounds in the background are the movements of the endless ocean. What will we do before we become nothingness? Are our children our eternity? All this hard work we pour into our jobs, which seem to be our identities, does it after all matter? Does it make us happy?

If only I could hear the open wind, and every time become alive, wrap those I love close in the intensity of love that I feel and that they deserve, release the creative monkeys and slash my hands against the liquid blades of coloured glass. Would technology have saved me, I now cannot help but wonder?

Why do we spend time on pursuits which do not bring us life? Pursuits which will not matter in another 3 months, another 4 years? Such short blinks of time to erase what mattered so much, what matters so much to us now. Why spend any time on things that no one needs?

And so I shower the people I love with love.

And I work for a paradigm shift in community and economic development strategies that will not bear my name.

“The true meaning of life is to plant trees, under whose shade you do not plan to sit.”

And I love without abandon, though it hurts deeper than I have ever known to lay my heart and soul bare. A pain occasionally edged with sweetness, aching in its tender fragility.

And I embrace my Jabberwock, who may never grace my walls, but who means something to me, and fills my heart as I watch him grow.

And here is he, emerging stealthy from the tall swamp grasses, hidden behind the brown knarls of the TumTum tree.

jabberwock1

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