Prescription

A simple prescription for defeating a creative block is to face whatever media we work with and simply make a start. Writing is my fondest medium, so I began with A. I do not typically encounter the condition of block, nor the related issue of boredom. Still, I recognize both can be problems for some.

Reading can be a preventative measure against boredom and can dispel block when inspirational material is read. I do not rule out any content that one fancies. We find our inspirations in what we love.

Sometimes creative work with materials used in childhood or similar to those can be the catalyst for a product that is hugely satisfying. I think this is one of the reasons journals are so appealing to me. Writing by hand was how my early stories and poems were done.

Construction paper, pipe cleaners, and glue can be used to make more sophisticated work now that we are grown up, but those materials bring our child out to play. Often when I create art, I go back to early beginnings and use colored pencils. The smell of shavings is very evocative of efforts made before the critic became hyperactive.

If your early days included film, simply remember the feeling of beginner’s mind and get out and take the shot. The idea here is to leave the agonizing behind and simply fall in love with capturing the subject, any subject, now.

A cause of boredom and block is our tendency to overthink. If we become engrossed in the doing, the being, we can escape the critical tendency to be overtly adult.

Some people say think outside the box; my thought is to consider the box lost in another dimension and explore that territory. No answer you discover can possibly be wrong.

Okay, sorry, this was free-form, and as with much free-writing should you disagree, just take what you can use and disregard all else.

I have not written explicitly about creativity in a while, and this is Haphazard Creative. I hope you are graced by intense creativity in whatever you choose to do.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

Foundling

The destination
Never was physical space;
Place is simple, time’s
Variable unknowable
Where existence is or not.

Hidden deep within
The drowning dark pleasure,
Breath, a sigh again;
Fear accursed pushed away,
Courage forced reality.

Soul dispersed, tangled
In webs suddenly affixed,
Loosely captured bound,
Silken syllables spoken
Whispers increasing repeat.

Hope born in hours
Without counting, unminded,
Where brokenness can
Never mend, but somehow less
Becomes if given peace, love.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

2020.06.26 Cones edit

Fashion

It is life, mundane,
Being fitted over her,
Like she is the shine
When truth must concede that we
Are the main attraction, stars.
The color of life
We share it in helping style,
The jeans, shorts, shirts,
We present her to the world,
Charming, disarming, oui, oui.
A dress, dressing up
What they compliment, extreme,
We clothes do perform
With the boldest statements, grace,
Then cast aside, shame her pride.
When she dotes, and preens,
It is the magic we bring
How fashion delights,
No figure, no notice, is
Such we lack miracle dreams.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

I am doing laundry and laundry. I tried a persona poem. After fighting with tangles, I needed to say something.