I remember the exact day that the block began. I was in art therapy and we were discussing how random and seemingly out of left field my ideas are, when all of a sudden my therapist said “but they’re not…. You can actually be very methodical with your art. One might even say rational.”
“Rational… me? I don’t think so.”
“What. It’s like you have something against being rational. Logic has it’s place in this world too, don’t write it off. Some of your art is in the moment, but other pieces I can tell have been conceived and well thought out, meaning that your rational mind played a part and ultimately helped you carry out your vision.”
“Okay… So what are you saying here?”
“Well. I think that you struggle with Left brain vs. Right.”
I lit a smoke in his office, but before he had a chance to bitch me out about it I said “don’t worry, I’m leaving. This is too fucked up for me right now. I didn’t come here to hear about what a boring, logical bean counting fuck I am.”
I sped out of the parking lot and went home to smoke some 10-month-old bud I had collecting dust (and god knows what else) in the cupboard. With my daughters visiting their grandparents, and AJ at a retreat, I had the house all to myself. After a few big hauls, the stress from the therapy session began to wander out of my mind and I sat there happily engrossed in my Tostitos, Cheese Dip and an episode of Seinfeld. You know, the one where they lose the car in the multi-tier parking lot at the mall.
Eventually the room became darker and I realized I had been sitting on my couch watching sitcoms for almost four hours and had absolutely NO original or creative thoughts whatsoever, in fact I think it would be safe to say that I wasn’t thinking about anything. At 11 o-clock I wrote off the day and went to bed feeling lazy and hung from the joint I smoked.
Mornings are always great for me because my fucked up dreams are what fuel my writing, painting, sculptures and other creative ventures. I knew that this day would melt away and tomorrow would bring something new.
And indeed it did.
But by new, it was new in the sense that it sucked. I woke up late from my hazy cannabis slumber and reached for my notebook, which I always keep by the bed.
Now what did I dream about…
Oh, I remember I was at the store, and then my sister was there. Then there was some sort of problem with the cash register and the girl had to put a new tape in. And I think we were driving down our old street in….
OH MY GOD!!
I had a BORING DREAM! Nothing happened! It was so relentlessly lame that I can’t even fathom the thought of thinking about it anymore. No scandals, no heart wrenching tragedies, no orgasmic sex, no copious drug use, no serial killers, rapists, or spies. Not even any beautiful scenery. Just me at a LAME FUCKING STORE WITH A BITCH BEHIND THE COUNTER WHO CAN’T EVEN OPERATE A GODDAMN CASH REGISTER.
My hands started shaking. I told myself “Don’t overreact Selina, this might just be an off day… Go have a hot shower, that always helps to get the creative juices flowing.”
I grabbed my bottle of pills and popped a couple extra, then went to turn on the shower. I made it nice and hot, almost scolding. My skin turned Red immediately upon entering. After a minute I adjusted to the temperature and closed my eyes as the water ran down my body. I breathed in deeply allowing myself to be open to inspiration.
Oh look, I’m almost out of Australian Shampoo. I wonder why it’s Australian. I mean is it made from some secret fucking ingredient or something…. Shit I am doing it again. I’m having uncreative thoughts.
Something weird… something different. Oh, I could think about that time I walked in on Darrick with a vibrating dildo up his ass…. Oh no… Don’t go there. Just ewww. No.
I got out of the shower, my skin made me look like a freshly boiled lobster.
Figuring that today would be yet another wasted creative day, I decided not to get dressed, or go out. I sat around my house in my bath robe eating 2 day old Chinese Food and reading The National Enquirer.
My phone rang. It was my therapist, probably calling to give me some tax advice.
“Hey, I just wanted to see if we could reschedule next week. Something’s come up.”
“You cock-blocked me you asshole!”
“What?” he chuckled. “Calm down. What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m blocked now. Totally!! Even my dreams are boring.”
“Okay. Well don’t give too much power to these thoughts you’re having. You shouldn’t be thinking like that. Go out and enjoy the day or something.”
Frustrated, I hung up on him and threw my chopsticks against the wall. They landed on the floor like a big “X” further reminding me of what a total failure I am.
My block continued for several weeks. I just couldn’t get it together. I wasn’t myself, I was pissed off all the time, bored, uninspired, and completely lacking in motivation. Nobody wanted to be around me because I was such a bitch. Even my therapist was walking on egg shells, but at least he knows me and can forgive me when I lash out.
It’s hard to tell what specifically made the block disappear, but I remember thinking about how my daughters dolls all ended up naked with rats nests hair, missing legs, and dirty faces. They looked like homeless hookers who had been knocked around by their pimps. And it didn’t matter what the doll was wearing, or how nice it’s hair was, because in the end, they all ended up the same… dirty and naked.
And that was it. That was what inspired me. Dirty naked Barbies lying around my house like washed up whores. I smiled conjuring up artistic images of dirty dolls.