Ever play something so wondrous, so magical, and wish you had pressed the Record button? Just had that moment. It was good; reminded me of why I still have my music equipment. But it also speaks of the ephemeral nature of the Moment, how it’s important to be present when it happens. Joyful, yet melancholy.
I agitatedly paced around my apartment afterward, swinging hands through the air, because as elated I felt, there was no recording. Nobody will hear it, and I won’t remember it. Concert for one. There’s that melancholy. There are technological solutions to this, but the moment the timeline rolls, nothing happens. This is the crux of the problem of creativity.
Or at least the crux of my own problem with creativity.
The more I think about it, the more I start to understand that my fixation with organizing my music equipment — with keeping it neat, with setting up the keyboard racks and positioning the speakers and making things accessible just in case I get the inspiration to record something — the more I think that maybe that’s all doing nothing more than standing in the way of my actual creativity. It’s not serving my actual creativity. My apartment is so quiet, the space is so close, the room has no air, and I am using this equipment that’s just so uncomfortable to use. Creativity needs noise; it needs a mess, something you can spill and smash and tear up. Everything I have is on wire bread racks and scissor keyboard stands, and it’s just…uncomfortable. There’s no place to rest, to space to expand and relax and let things flow. That’s a major problem. I feel like putting it all on the fucking floor and crouching over it and punching buttons and putting it all within arm’s reach and really getting my face into it, letting the noise spill out through the windows and through the walls and not giving a damn.
In the mess, creativity. In the creativity, inspiration. I complain about not having it; now I must find a way to allow it to happen. Must find a way where it is inevitable.