Sometimes when I don’t feel creative I write anyway.  While I’m doing it, in the un-creative state, I really don’t find myself producing anything of any worth or interest.  But, most of the time when this happens and I look on it the next day it holds some meaning for me.

Not that what I wrote above has anything interesting to offer the mind, and yes I am in one of those places right now where I don’t feel particularly creative.  I will write anyway.

It has been over a week since I’ve written anything at all so it’s just plain time to let my fingers start pounding at the keys until something comes up.

I have had some serious thoughts lately.  I’ve been thinking about making a documentary film based around drummers.  It’s not as simple as that, but that’s me being un-creative in my expression right now.

I have also come to a place in writing my own story where I’m stalling for some reason.  I don’t know why.  Sometimes I just sit and think and there is so much to say I don’t know where to start.  And other times I just write anyway and let the chronology work itself out in editing.

I have come to a place within myself where I want to be a spiritual being.  I struggle with my addiction and I’m getting stronger all the time.  One thing that is going to really give me strength to kick is being able to pour my energy and creativity into my work, and I’ll be rewarded for it, I’ll feel a sense of accomplishment and I’ll be able to hold my head up and be happy with the things I’m doing.  I won’t have that urge to soothe my soul with chemicals because I’ll have some real achievement doing it for me.

I have recently come back in contact with a long lost business partner who is very talented and who, together with me, brings an unstoppable reputation to our particular industry.  He is recognized as the best of the best at what he does in this field.  We have an opportunity to leverage our reputations together and make another go of a business venture.  It’s a risk we are seriously brainstorming right now.  We would need funding, but with the right business plan, vision, mission statement and drive we would take the industry by storm.

I would really like to get some kind of funding and make this documentary I have rolling around in my head, pestering the hell out of me.  I already see it as if it’s been made.

A friend told me today, “you dream big, you talk big and you f**k up big”.  I took that as a major compliment, because that is indeed what I do.  And I succeed big too.

Lumber floating down a flooded street, there’s a stop sign in the yard.  That’s where it ended up.  Do I obey that stop sign or just let the lumber flow on through?

It made its way down through the gutter when suddenly the lumber felt a little hankering for some convenience store ingestion.  So lumber turned around right there in the middle of the street, not even looking both ways, and took a Louie at the stop sign without even giving it attention

Lumber has some concerns at this point, because he could swell and rot, but he was treated well at the mill and should be able to handle the elements.  Perhaps his only concern should be for splintering things upon others.

This thought soon passes his mind as he sees the convenience store sign sailing high above the tree line and so lumber doubled his effort in getting there.  Passing him by were cars full of Mexican hat dancers; they had just come from a rat infestation conference at the VFW.  When lumber came around the corner he had to manage his way around a couple of concrete objects and a little bit of garbage, but he saw Martin playing space invaders instead of delivering his newspapers.

This issue of space invaders vs. paper route is something that lumber and Martin were going to have to work out between them.  You see, back when lumber was just a twig, Martin was a three year old boy who just arrived from Peru and the first thing he saw when he got here was twig.  So he stopped and looked twig straight in the eyes and said, “Teach me to speak English please”.

Twig responded by sharing his favorite alphabet songs and once Martin learned his ABCs, he could speak the English just as well as twig.

I don’t know what it’s like where you come from, but if a Peruvian and a twig exchange any sort of intelligence, they are bonded for life.  This is where lumber now sees a problem with Martin not delivering his newspapers.  Martin has an addiction to space invaders.  It is a very sensitive subject and he will only discuss it while changing dollars into quarters or with his elementary school janitor.  Those are the rules, it’s just the way he likes it.

So lumber finds his regular parking space and drops the kick stand.  Martin sees him coming out of the corner of his eye and is feeling shame for brushing off the newspaper delivery for the cold comfort of red and blue plastic and immediately pumps piping hot nacho cheese into the palm of his hand.

Lumber, empathetically pats martin on the shoulder and tells him that the cheese blisters will become infected if he doesn’t put his hand into his baseball glove.  “Fine” he says, “I don’t need baseball anyway” and just at that moment, Martin remembered his newspapers and began selling them on the street corner for a nickel apiece.  “Slawrkothy!” he would yell, Slawrkothy to all of you who do not understand the magnitude of what I sell.

Lumber usually lets it go but this particular day he was a little on edge so he kept on going, one by one, down, down, down.  Soon there were only three and lumber was naked!

Once they arrived back at home they took off their disguises and had a good laugh about the whole thing.  Lumber would always remark about the way people used him as a door stop or to get a little extra leverage, and Martin’s newspapers helped when the leverage became too complicated.

Those space invaders came flying by, just about the way Aunt Dixie performed her corncob mating ritual with Mike Douglas.  Boy weren’t those two a team!  They only lasted a month but they had potential.

Lumber put his disguise back on and peeked out the peephole.  “Whatchie whatchie!” he spouted while flicking his earlobes.  This kept the grave robbers away from the porch monkey bicycle as Frank Zappa soon learned to play.