The wall I was talking about? It’s still there. Oh, I’m not fenced in. Yet.
But I must admit I am editing my thoughts and ideas even as they come in, like acquaintances through my front door, invited, but suddenly screened in the hallway just as they’ve taken off their shoes. I look them up and down like a bouncer scrutinizes well-dressed partygoers straining at the velvet-ropes of a popular club and then dismisses the young people. “Too personal, no one likes that kind of drivel,” or “Not inspiring/clever/witty enough.”
I am not doing myself any favours. The spectre of self-censorship is ringing the deathknell of creativity.
When in doubt or debt, borrow. Here’s something from playwright Christopher Fry:
I can pass to you
Generations of roses in this wrinkled berry.
There: now you hold in your hand a race
Of summer gardens, it lies under centuries
Alright. I’m not going to fight it. I’m going to let this guest of an idea get through the door and allow it to sit in the living room and open up.
So while it rainstormed this afternoon, there was excited chatter about signing up for a race. The race has a cool name, the 2XU Compression Run. 2XU is a brand of running, swimming, biking clothes and accessories, as well as triathlon compression apparel, thus the name. But it puts in the mind the idea of a compressed or shortened run, a quick run. But how pressed and minimized can 10 km be? I’m thinking leg muscles contracting to painful distraction, a hammer pounding in the chest, a quarrel inside the head as one is overtaken repeatedly, and lots of perspiration. But in the minds of competitive, ambitious recreational runners, reality slinks away as the ego swells and the imagination takes flight.
The driving rain outside the cafe where I’m having an unhealthy late lunch seems to drive up the energy in the ebb and flow of chatter. “Personal best” becomes a mantra on the group chat dialogue screen.
There’s nothing like the prospect of a race to set the blood going again.
I might have hit a glass wall on this space, but in the physical world, there are no fences to keep me in, and the road is long and wide and open.
Off she has gone
Away to the melting moody horizons of opal,
Moonstone, bloodstone, now moving in lazy
Amber, now sheltering in the shade
Of jade from a brief rainfall of diamonds.
Able to think to-morrow has an even
Brighter air, a glitter less moderate. . . –Christopher Fry