Another attempt at peeling back the creative banana.

Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

Tapped out? Really tapped out? Scraping past the bottom. In search of anything? Can’t imagine what that might be. A time for breathing in and holding gently. Holding out for that little door that may appear ever so fleetingly, then in a wink, it’s gone, poof! Gone.

Not to swing towards a negative pole here, not my desire. Not wanting to put anybody down. Not my thing. So what then?

Going over the fine, white pebble bed, a bamboo rake, its skinny branch fingers causing a minor ruckus on the surface. Looking for what? Stirring up impossible to see tiny tornadoes you say. In other words, searching. For what, who knows again?

It’s not like I’m driving to Nordstrom Rack (if it hasn’t been gutted), to find a pair of deeply discounted running shoes. Were it that simple. Did you know if you get one pair a second pair comes half off? Not bad and definitely worth the search. Another time…

All I’m attempting to do here with you today is ask for help. Show you a part of my daily writing routine, sort of write out loud what I go through pretty much daily in the ongoing effort to get something down on paper. So this is not so much a sharing of wisdom, writing wisdom, (I have so little of each). This is more part of an ongoing effort to continue the never-ending digging into the mystery of what we do at our desks to come up with ideas to write about!

Weather, yep, the climate is the other go-to. Wants to rain today, always a blessing, or so I say. The day darkens in celebration of nothing. Hands held towards the sky in silent supplication. Allow the words to come. Been here before, countless times. Remember those windswept late mornings in the Illinois farmhouse.

The early spring wind forcing through the old wood structure. It was mostly dark as we didn’t want to run up the light bill. The wind rose up in an otherworldly song, even the well-used, creosote caked, red brick chimney howled, whistled where the see-through cracks were visible; actually the house shook and creaked. But it was just wind on the surface, nothing deep there. But then it may have been ancient winds, a whole other matter… I’d look for misplaced feathers, maybe a misplaced Kachina…

It was a time, early on in my life, early twenties when I was barely figuring out what was going on.

Well, today many years later and many miles removed has similar memories as it’s dark, going to noon, wants to rain it seems. Let it I always say, let it. It’s Sunday so today is a candidate for chilling, relaxing, doing nothing. Well, then there’s writing…

Don’t feel like doing this, Kimosabe. Don’t feel like scribbling. Been down this old worn road many times over the years. I could in fact nod off right here at my laptop. Sure, and why not? Hm, maybe head out to the hammock for a Sunday snooze.


Sitting here, ticking off the thoughts in the general direction of getting something started, the thought of The Emerging COVID culture presents itself. Notice how we ‘call’ around the house, the bigger the house, the bigger a complication it can be. Being housebound naturally will have its moments. I hear a voice from somewhere, it sounds like her voice, I gauge carefully using a set of pre-established determinants, how and if to respond. Is it her simply casting her voice about, can be, doesn’t really mean a lot especially if she’s really not saying anything. So says I.

I run the risk at this point by not responding to an uptick in her tone, Jesus, George. No, she’s not referring to me as Jesus the prophet rather she’s asking that Jesus come and save her ass from this COVID induced lunacy. Or asking Jesus’ help so that I might respond. But my issue is not of being an asshole or being uncaring, rather it has more to do with the simple truth that I am ever so slowly yet surely going deaf.

The house can at moments break down in a torrent of human calls going every which way. Were it not a bit pathetic, it would be very funny. In fact, I’ve found myself sitting here at my desk and the racket will ricochet off the walls up and downstairs. It becomes an unintelligible crescendo, people speaking towards different ends: lost sock, a glitch in zoom class, pancakes, talking but not listening to me, that’s not what I said, I said, that’s not what I said and you know it. It’s when the yelling becomes accusatory, as in the last example. Here you are calling out to someone who you feel is ignoring you.

Unwritten rule: No matter what was said (unless a personal attack towards you, which puts into effect a different set of engagement rules). No matter what was said, you are duty-bound to try to track down what was said. This potentially preserves the peace, then again can just as quickly unravel things. It’s the risk of it, can’t be ignored.

So a decision is called for. You must decide, yeah you!

Now again, if in fact you are mildly entertained by this madhouse sort of set up, things will unravel of themselves and soon it will become a free for all. Comments flying hither dither, back and forth, up and around never really landing and if they did, it still wouldn’t matter. The key is to AVOID TO PISS PEOPLE OFF ON PURPOSE. The situation is already prime for low levels of madness, why make things worse. Exceptions and the need for your clear conscience dictates otherwise.

All in fun.

Onto another observation; Lately, I’ve noticed that when I decide to put on a certain music for the morning session at my desk something often happens. Let me set it up. Each morning I like to load up my listening pleasure, usually one maybe two bands for the morning. So this morning I dug up the Beatles’ White album, admittedly their strange rocker, you have to be a real Beatles fan to like this album. Arguably one of their best.

I crank it up, no not high volume, as I don’t live alone. Anyway, it’s been maybe half a year that I punched in the Beatles for my morning listening. So what happens is that of necessity is its fresh appeal, otherwise, I’d find some other music. But get this, the old Beatles song brings memory from another existence, yes, you read right. Of course from my current past, but it seems more than that. A backward reaching almost as though reaching for a long put aside energy on a top, dusty shelf.

Yeah, so it can be almost any band but the Beatles really stand out because of their decided inclination to the spiritual or mystical. The playing of the deep chords that seem to reach deep. I am taken to a place, rather an awareness that asks: okay where are we, no not scary like. Rather more a sense, in this case, can be nice. And the Beatles being the Beatles, they were so damn good at reproducing sounds that they wanted to put out in the air. No one really came close. Enough of that. Admittedly it’s too loose to breathe something solid. Perhaps one day I will return to this.


Having said that as one sits tapping the beat ones’ life flows from one’s fingertips as in the old times, why not just follow along? And there it is, another reality staring me in the eyes as the Beatles sing Sexy Sadie, immediately transported to another place that does not exist, at least not in the worldly sense. But so sweet. The world could go up in flames around me and I’d still be here riding that tonal surfboard through space though somehow still strapped to my chair.

But it’s not peaches n cream. Each Beatle tune potentially can mean passages to countless realities, that’s too much hassle. Best to ‘direct’ it so that this morning’s session, with the Beatles providing background represent as a whole: a big reset. Time passes as the tears flow freely river like from our straining eyes and we are no closer to knowing where we came from or where we are going. No idea, none.

Careful here, I don’t want to go to that muddy blame area, and blame it on the ancient European philosophers of old. Though easily it could be done, wasn’t it the same ones who determined women are less and that the only truth is that which is found in the bible.

Fact: simply, they were as lost as anyone could be. And yes, they picked freely from the Hindu/ Buddha treasure trove. At least thank god for that.

I worry at moments for the younger ones who for whatever reason stumble across yet another ancient, ‘brilliant’ European truth speaker. I mean we have to do this, search that is, for if we don’t we simply grow cold and moldy, not moving inward, outward, upward, what have you. So as a whole we attempt to keep the written message on point in such a manner that one might get a smile, a small jolt of light, like: oh yeah, shit I get that, or more meaningfully, I like that or I accept that. Even this pushes the wave along, even if little by little.

No, none of this is stuff I’ve made up, rather it’s what is seeable, or at least visible enough to begin defining and filling out a picture; thus writable to a point. What line produces greater clarity? The written word or the spoken or the utter silent type which rolls inside the confines of your head. We all express this sort of stuff on a daily basis, minute by minute, moment by moment no doubt. As far as I gather no one possesses the patent.

Wouldn’t it be fun, liberating if we could just walk away from the racket, your desk, the music. Once you’re physically apart, it happens: where you just were no longer relates, the music you have on is utterly unknown to you! Automatic reset! All becomes fresh material.

The bottom line then is what? Love. The cosmic solve all? What else can it be, it’s the only thing that cuts through it all. We all know this, each in our own ways.

Time is somehow tagged by music, no question. Some music, maybe it’s as simple as the music one loves, enters your consciousness and mixes with what’s already in there, of course. No doubt using your preset of mood at the start of your session.

You sit, start your day, open your mind, and soon the sounds are resonating inexplicably with the mystery, for mystery it is indeed. Reverberating along with what you’re seeing.

And then ‘number 9’ comes along, a bit of tongue in cheek. Limitations of human kinds’ ability to make sounds which cast a welcome yet powerful spell become evident, I wonder where they wanted to go with ‘9’. Oh, I get that there’s an officially stated story behind the track as there is with every track. In ‘9’s case a thing about revolution via sound… But honestly, doesn’t the creative, in this case, the musician, put stuff out there hoping to capture us in one way or another, certainly, they can’t count on this happening in a prescribed, step-by-step manner. Don’t sweat it though as there’s no purpose, nothing gained. Will it solve the next war, get rid of the virus, no. My tiny perspective…

And then there’s the old saw, albeit a fun one, about each tune coming out of your speakers being fully capable of presenting a whole new, never before felt sentiments. ‘Old saw’ only in that this fact has been around a long time and true: an old tune can generate new stuff in your head year in and year out. Probably just resonating with the very first sentiments you ever felt.

And then the inspiration which rode in on a silver veil simply goes away, along with whatever message it intended to share. My gut feel is that it always delivers, positive thinking, but I don’t always ‘get’ it.

Here one needs to apply care so that one doesn’t fall prey to melancholia or fabricated sadness (which of course has its place). Life goes on, and that’s the point, the challenge is to embrace it, and get it down on paper.

Time for my third cup of Guatemalan coffee…



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Tom Jacobson

Tom Jacobson

Discovered the world of Medium some years ago. Amazing! Published first book, romantic adventure in Guatemala and Nicaragua, on Amazon. Title Lenka: Love Story.