I think I may be over another brief periodic creative slump. As annoying as they are, they tend to be short, and this one lasted less than a week. It hit me that the inspiration I need is at the beach, low tide, and I haven’t been to the tidepools in about a month. We were set to go this afternoon, Damon was actually going to get back in the water while I watched the kids, hunting for sea stars and stuff, but the cold rain started falling. Even though we didn’t make it to the coast, something within me stirred. After three days of fruitless painting, doggedly dabbling blind beyond enjoyment in a frigid studio, I’m finally feeling my own pulse again. Some mexican beer, lime and salt, red meat and Blonde Redhead seem to have helped.We saw Blonde Redhead in Austin a few months ago at ACLfest, where they gave a sweaty, ethereal performance in the midday languor, linen sticking on skin. Tonight I feel the music breathe like some sort of cosmic summer breeze through the house, and I begin to daydream about the long hot 3-day marathon date with my husband and of the stark newness, then, of Kuzu’s breathy falsetto voice, and of trying to sing, myself.Sometimes the surest way to clear a mental roadblock, or a loss of mojo, is to do something completely scary and new for a change, this I know. And Damon has challenged me to sing to his music. Playing bass along with him is enough pressure and I already met that challenge. He also challenged me to face my fear of surfing by putting me on a board before a wave in the Pacific. If for only ourselves, my heart still stops at the though of exposing this abstraction of my voice. I don’t consider myself a singer. But he believes in me. Within these walls I might venture beyond my securities. You won’t hear me, so I will try. But you can send me quiet thumbs-up, because I’m scared to sing. Me? Sing. If ever so imperfectly, I’ll try.
