I have a million things going through my mind but not one thing to say. For the past hour and half I've been sitting on, lying across, and draping over the edge of my bed. It feels pretty unproductive but I force myself to stay put. I've got two tall stacks of art books within arms reach but I will myself to leave them where they are. I've looked through them enough to know that original ideas--my own, unique, interesting, profound perspective is not to be found in the bound volumes of photographs and artworks I love so much.
I turned off the music because today it is distracting. I try not to shut my eyes for fear of napping, but I do anyway, which is ok because sometimes I see better with my eyes closed.
Blank sheets of paper, a pencil, a stack of scribbled thoughts, notes, ideas...
There is value in reading and looking at work, in studying philosophy and theology, in paying attention to news and culture, but that is all input to be consumed and digested, and art is about the output.
It has taken me years to discover (re-discover?) the forgotten benefits of being alone. In silence. Thinking.
It takes patience and willpower to be still.
It's been an hour and I've had thousands of thoughts. I wrote down one. And it's a good one.