I May Never Grow Up

Last week, I went out to dinner with a neighbor, and we later stopped by Target so she could finish shopping for gifts for children in need. She needed to buy supplies for three girls and three boys of varying ages, and I was happy to help.

At one point, I spotted a huge Hello Kitty display in the children's clothing section and squealed out "Hello Kitty!" with exuberance before I could stop myself. An employee I hadn't noticed in the area burst out laughing, and I cowed my head, embarrassed, because I hadn't realized how loud I was. As we passed her, she said to me, "That's awesome. Even I'm excited now. I love your enthusiasm!"

My neighbor then said, "Kerry, the older girl is about 12. I think Hello Kitty may be too young for her."

To which I replied, "I'm 32 and haven't outgrown Hello Kitty yet. I think we're safe."



Some Hello Kitty Band-Aids eventually wound up in the gift boxes. =^_^=

I get stupid excited about silly things, to the point I actually lose my inhibitions in my passion. I become completely un-self-aware, which is a welcome break from the hyperawareness I practice the rest of the time. Sometimes I catch myself, like above, and the hyperawareness takes over with crippling embarrassment, but nearly every time the person I'm with comments on how they envy my passion and hope I never lose it.

I find I hope the same.

My passions can be blinding, to the point I throw myself into them without abandon and momentarily forget everything else around me. I've lost hours doodling or futzing with a photo concept until I get it just right, forgetting sometimes to drink or eat meals.

I still remember once, when I was much younger, using crayons to create a stippling rendition of a tree while sitting on a balcony of some hotel I was staying in with my parents. My parents had been calling me for a while, but I never heard them, so intent was I on making those little colored dots on paper. When they found me and spoke my name from right behind me, I was startled so badly I dropped my crayons, and the drawing was whisked away by a gust of wind. I was heartbroken, and we searched for it as well we could, but it was time to leave.

To this day I think it may have been the most beautiful, inspired thing I've ever created. And I keep chasing that moment of utter devotion and creation that takes me into my own little world for however brief a time.

It's why I keep picking up my camera. I know that the pictures I take aren't world-shattering or world-expanding the way many images I respect by fellow artists are. Most of the time, I'm okay with that. At others, I wish my humble images would open another view of the world to others, shake their foundations a little, or make them contemplate the grandness of life and its infinite variety for just a moment.

...and then I'll get an idea that washes all that angsty self-doubt and loathing right away, and I can't wait to go creating again.

Sometimes, it's just wonderful to act like a kid again. I highly recommend it.

Stop overthinking it. Just go create.

And laugh a lot while doing so.

Creationary

It's nearly midnight now, and it's more than the recent (superfluous and idiotic) time change keeping me up past my usual bedtime. I've spent the past few hours immersed in other people's creations, particularly Imogen Heap's, and a slow, rumbling, glow of a burn has begun seething in my brain. And, frankly, the damned thing isn't allowing me to sleep. I want to create something. Now. Right now. But I'm stuck in this limbo between too many ideas and not one good one to throw myself at or up against, repeatedly, until I either bloody my nose or break through.

It all began yesterday when Imogen posted on her Twitter page that she would be approaching her biography and cover artwork for her upcoming album in a quirky, fun, slightly silly, and altogether brilliant new way: her Twitter followers—or fellow Twits—would do it for her.

A burbling brook of ideas bubbled up from my heart to tickle my brain with tingly effervescence. I'm not certain I can put into words the excitement and thrill even the possibility of working with Imogen for a week on an artistic venture inspired in me. A gust of giggly, wild ideas blew through me before drawing back in like caught breath to capture the details and colors and to desperately try to pin a few down before they fluttered back out again and far away beyond my grasp.

I've spent much of this evening relistening to her albums, which I've long loved, and perusing her past vBlogs on YouTube. And since I cannot do more than send along samples of my work and then wait, wait, and wait some more, my digging efforts to learn more about this amazing sound artist—"musician" just seems a woefully inaccurate description to encompass all she does—have done nothing more than to feed my creativity even more.

My photography and writing urges now piqued, the educational fuel from literary agents I recently discovered on Twitter, including Colleen Lindsay (mastermind behind the recent and brilliant #queryfail) and Angela James, has served only to puff at the embers of my ideas. Unable to photograph half what I imagined at the nonce, I thought instead about adding more to a short story I began a couple years ago just to get the creativity out and materialized so I could get some blasted sleep already.

Unfortunately, I ended up hating much of what I'd written on that story (still like the idea, but the prose made me heave a little), and that little flicker of an idea was quickly snuffed.

I'm unable to sing full voice, as I'm wont to do when this type of energy stuffs itself up inside me so much that it cottons up my throat, because the hour is late and my downstairs neighbor is an unfortunate gent I'd prefer to have as little run-ins with as possible. Especially after the hooker Christmas present he gave himself last year that ended up screaming naked on his front porch after midnight.

So I can only pour out here, a small sieve to drain a little of the energy out and stop the jittery bouncing of my feet and fingers.

But I know as soon as my head hits the pillow, I will think again of trying to capture the feathery, brilliant spirit of Imogen; of other dream photography assignments; of the neglected characters I left sitting stymied in ink; and of many more things unknowingly tangential that my mind hasn't even yet realized.

How do I get this out? Onto paper. Onto screen. Onto canvas. Onto scraps. Onto ink and color and words.

And why doesn't my muse keep more sensible hours?