Stranger In A Strange Land

I’m so far removed from the practice of creating, my own brain feels like a foreign country.

I stumble around, gawking and stupefied, because while there are lots of interesting things to see and do, I no longer understand the language spoken there.

Nothing makes any sense.

Clocks, though — clocks are the same.

Those, I understand.

They keep ticking.

So I spend a lot of energy walking in circles trying to find familiar, stable ground; a place to roost and to nest, perhaps… while the sky turns and countdowns continue their counts down.

I can’t seem to just sit down at a proverbial outdoor cafe with a proverbial (or, heck, actual) pen and paper.

I can’t seem to sit down at all.

Loudmouthed Foreigner

I returned to this website, and to blogging, in the hopes that I would have a place to simply and quickly communicate what’s in my head when it comes to creativity and my life and all the ways those things intersect or don’t.

Twenty days ago, I wrote, “Break’s over.” I declared that I would “address, and incrementally add to, something creative every day of the week.”

I’ve been working on stuff. It hasn’t been a daily thing, though, and my inclination is to beat myself up for that. I shouldn’t.

The main creative thing I’ve done for myself in the last three weeks has been working on a post on blogging. As in: why I’ve returned to blogging, and why anyone attempting to be a working creator with an online proxy should also be blogging.

I got over a thousand words in on that damn thing. Most of is rambling personal history and exposition; me trying to find me.

The tourist, wandering around, attempting to obfuscate shameful ignorance by pouring a lot of words all over everything… like the stereotypical Yank in Europe who thinks using louder English will magically result in being understood.

Quiet Time

This post you’re reading now… let’s call this my retreat back to the hotel room.

My things are here; it’s the tiny oasis in a strange and thus far unknowable land. While I’m here, I’ll do a little research; maybe I can learn a few words of the local tongue before I venture out again.

After all, I don’t want to seem stupid.

More importantly, I don’t want to waste any time.

I understand clocks.

Why I’m Here

I spent three weeks, off and on, and over a thousand words, trying to explain why I blog, and why you should, too.

Here’s the answer in less than a hundred words. Unobfuscated. With an inside voice.

This blog, Scribtotum, is for getting to know my own head.

It’s notes in the margins of my synaptic commonplace book.

It’s morning pages, and it’s always morning.

It’s a recursive gratitude journal.

It’s a tiny undersea rift beneath the archipelago of isles of blogging, gradually displacing the embryonic darkness all around; aspiring to break the surface; dreaming of being colonized by airborne seeds and birds and things that pulse in tidepools.

If my creative mind has become a foreign country, Scribtotum is where I study for citizenship.

It’s where I’ll plant my flag.

Visit me. Tell me about where you live.