Why for you been dragging your sorry ass around like the world is coming to an end? You’ve been acting badly, and you know it. For example: What’s up with all of the self-indulgent eating lately? Remember how you changed your worst eating habits (excessive quantities of sugar, not enough vegetable matter) earlier in the year when you found out your cholesterol had gone through the roof? And what about the last two months of almost no meditation? Minimal exercise? Didja FORGET how great you feel when you do even 15 or 20 minutes of yoga?
Face it: you’ve been a crank and a grouch, undermotivated and over-whiney, and can I just say that it has been boring as HELL. So give yerself a slap in the face, and see if a friend will give you a loving boot in the ass so you can snap out of it. You’re no good to anyone when you behave this way.
While you’re at it, why dontcha try getting enough sleep (that would require going to bed at a reasonable hour most nights), taking walks in the morning, and performing the occasional random (and anonymous) act of kindness for people who least expect it?
And quit thinking about being creative. GO. DO. You’ve got works in progress. Go back to your mandala project. Get busy again pulling poetry and essays together for your book lab. Read what you want to read; put away all literature connected with work. Excavate your artist/writer self and give her back the light of day. And for god’s sake, throw those manacles and leg irons away. What, are you training to be a barbarian?
P.S. — remember who and what inspires you:
Neil Young, still rocking out in his 60s . . . Martin Dockery and his crazy-manic-gorgeous storytelling . . . your mom and her quiet strength, courage, and determination . . . your insanely adorable feline pal . . . people who make sidewalk art with chalk under cover of darkness . . . your friends in all of their various incarnations . . . your creative mentor of juicy arts . . . Ken Kesey . . . Maya Angelou . . . Walt Whitman . . . paintings of gifted graffiti artists . . . anyone who paints any mural on any building . . . Thomas Moore . . . poets, of course: Dorianne Laux . . . Connie Hales . . . Chuck Hanzlicek . . . Roethke . . . Susan Wooldridge and her word tickets . . . little kids finger-painting . . . constellations . . . connotations . . . conversations . . . WORDS ! . . . COLORS!!! . . . walking on the edge of the ocean . . . climbing to the top of giant slabs of rock for a change of view . . . Beethoven . . . Prokofiev . . . Mark Knopfler . . . a huge blank sheet of paper on an easel . . . a blank notebook . . . coffee with a friend . . . the way the sun slants through the day . . . how all of this is enough, somehow . . .