Oozing Creativity

So I've felt a little frustrated on the writing front for the last few days. Let's face it-- I've been boring! (Though I still get a kick out of Achy, Breaky Momma)
I asked myself what the deal is-- normally I can make something interesting up at the drop of a hat. I even expect other people to do it. Take non-boyfriend, for example. The other night on the phone, I suddenly said, "Tell me a story." He's been writing one ever since. I hope he doesn't read my blog, because the one paragraph he read me was really frou-frou and not my style, and he may jeopardize his chances of ever becoming REAL boyfriend if the story continues in that vein, but then I remember not everyone opens their mouths and has words and ideas magically appear. I don't really think-- it just comes. And, maybe that's the issue at hand. But don't worry-- I fully intend to pull a Stella and get my groove back.
Anyway, the thing giving me solace at the moment is knowing all my time has been spent in OTHER creative pursuits recently. I don't really mean to, but sometimes I find myself in this zone and my inner Martha Stewart gets unleashed (not the insider-trading one). I went to Michael's the other day and filled my cart with all kinds of odds and ends that became beautiful little somethings. I was so pleased with the way one particular project came out that I went BACK to Michael's to replenish my supplies. I think before it's all over and done with, I should have plenty of pieces to sell at the holiday boutique.
And speaking of the boutique, I constantly dream up ways to merchandise and advertise. I've caught myself daydreaming about price tags and how to display picture frames and chandeliers. I've mapped out which areas of the farmhouse should hold which items, and even sketched out the mailers. I certainly hope the ladies (Mumsy's friends) are up to the challenge, because I'm thinking full-scale bazaar here. I've researched tea-staining and gilding techniques and pulled things out of the old craft closet to utilize the supplies I have on hand. I love glitter! I love feathers! Why shouldn't I make a peacock chandelier like the one I saw at the stationer in Savannah? Who says I can't make my own mirror-- I've got the silver leaf, haven't I? And isn't it about time I actually refurbish those dining room chairs and finish the door table? I love my house so much. It's not that I couldn't afford end tables, I just like trunks and old suitcases better. This afternoon, my father was moving dirt around on my property in preparation for the fence my brother is building, and I invited him inside for a beverage. I showed him my new lamp (yes, I'm still going on about how in love with it I am), and he just blinked. Then I showed him my Mucha wall, and he told me it looked cluttered. "Oh, Father, really," I said indignantly. "It's not your fault you're not an artiste." I heaved the heavy sigh of the right-brained creative genius I pretend to be, and ushered him out to continue putting gravel up against my driveway. Were it not late spring, under normal circumstances I would have worn a beret, and the whole episode would have been that much more dramatic.
But the visual arts can only take me so far. Last night I had to forgo chatting with non-boyfriend because I was too busy playing the piano for hours. Sometimes that happens. As I drove home from the bulk food store with spices as a present for a bride-to-be, I sang harmony with the Everly Brothers on my iPod. I really think I should take up the ukulele for reals. It's so 1920s and delicious sounding.
And I've been itching to entertain again. I'm envisioning a late-summer soiree in my backyard, with lanterns (traditional metal ones as well as the Asian paper variety) strung from anything that will stand still. I almost want to tent the whole thing in mosquito netting and have people dance barefoot in the lusher parts of my grass after dining on something pretty and delectable. Heirloom tomatoes in a Caprese Salad. My famous risotto. Grilled squash and zucchini. Those bacon-wrapped fillet Mignon hors'doeuvres Paul loves. And something chocolate, because in this fantasy I'm once again Juliette Binoche in "Chocolat."
My choir director recently told me I'm predisposed to the sensual (read: appealing to the senses, rather than the colloquial and popular usage of the word) because of my astrological sign. I don't know if that's true, or if it's just who I've grown into. However, I will say this-- I like my clothes soft and feminine and brimming with gypsy spirit. I like music I can dance to or music that moves me to action in a deeper way. Sparkly is better than most things, unless an item has a worn, lived-in maturity about it. Scratches and shabbiness mean history, and I venerate the past (at least when it comes to furniture). I like things to taste rustic when they're savory and refined when they're sweet, though nothing can match the perfection of unadulterated, ripe fruit in season. I'm happiest to smell rain on the pavement and in the desert, or its manufactured counterpart known as the smell of Disneyland. You know the smell. If not Disney, give me Aromatique's "The Scent of Spring" for my house. I change perfumes as often as I change boyfriends, but like my boyfriends, there are several stand-bys which rotate and jockey for top-favorite. In spring, it's "Pleasures Intense." In autumn or winter, "Deep Red." Right now, I wear "Bronze Goddess" and laugh every time I spray it onto my pale skin. But I feel warmer for wearing it.
But I don't like everything to be soft and girly. I love the ache of muscles worked hard, and feet tired from walking all over creation. I like men with calloused hands who have spent their days producing and their free time giving. I even love the sound of silence, punctuated only by breathing or the chirp of a cricket. I like the crispness of minty mouthwash and the cleanliness of sterile stainless steel.
Under such blissful external circumstances as I live, is it any wonder my mind races to imagine another line of dialogue to fill my home with laughter? Should I be doing something else besides creating something magical and beautiful to bring joy to others? After a long day of crunching numbers and analyzing energy efficiency and explaining the ins-and-outs of fiberglass vs. polyurethane vs. cellulose, nothing recharges my batteries better than classical literature (though may I just say Omar Khayyam's "Rubaiyat" is beautiful but the sentiments are completely foreign to my own?), a cold glass of life's elixir (water, of course), and a comfortable chair to curl up in. Unless it's feverish painting at my kitchen table, or pounding on the piano in the dining room. Or perhaps watching some mindless film or another for an evening to crochet. If I can't be kissing, I can still be creating. Such talent, such talent.