Lo, the sun just blasted through my study window as I wrote that sentence; no kidding, it never comes in here. What are you doing, wayward beam? This is my dark hidey hole and now I feel so exposed.
Sometimes I fall into thinking creative juices go like this: coffee, kombucha, water, wine. And with my regular supply I wonder why this doesn’t turn out. Then one day my gut reacts to something I read or see or hear and I remember that fortification with a thing esoteric, aesthetic, absurd, or plain inspirational is the elixir of mind that enters the body as real energy, and that creative juices feel like something, a must-do-ness relief of forward motion.
There are so many places I could put a harp.