Houses of the Broken and Other Stories

Reset.

My muse took the winter off. There’s no two ways around it. The minute I was faced with unlimited free time, my get up and go got up and went. (Cue Fell On Black Days…)

The end of the year synopsis… yeah, I avoided it. While my year was mostly dominated with awesome things, you remember most how things ended, not how great the middle was. The same holds true for basically any type of art or performance. When all else fails, finish strong and the crowd will be happy. Despite my reluctance to summarize my year in one easy nutshell, I did have a number of internal musings about the resolutions, clean slates, and starting over all over again. I came to a few conclusions…

There is no such thing as a clean slate. There will always be residue. Always. And that’s o.k. You wouldn’t be where or who you are without those traces of the past, both good and bad. While you may not like the past scribbles, they can’t be erased. But you can make them evolve into another sketch that is more beautiful. Build on the slate, don’t scour it. The depth of field will be all the more interesting when you’re done.  (Maybe some Shine On You Crazy Diamond.)

Resolution on resolutions: If you really wanted to, you already would have.

Starting over. Not a fan. Starting over is uncomfortable. But in truth, comfort zones were made to be broken, like it or not. And the thing that was scary today, is old hat tomorrow. Unless, of course, the parachute didn’t open…

Motivation. You want to get something done? Find a busy (wo)man. Having nothing to do made me listless, even as I tried to keep busy I just felt like I was trying to ride a solid lead unicycle under water. A soldier needs a war… a Katherine needs to be under insurmountable deadlines. (Which has put Blue Collar Man solidly in my head now…)

Long nights… impossible odds…

Feel free to rock out a moment, I’ll be here. *yawn* Better? I thought as much.

Into the fray, once more… and again after that, and another time or two. Maybe three for good measure. The muse, snowbird that she is, will be back. She always comes back. And the woodchipper will be waiting.

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