Joe the Dog would bark and bark, and I’d yell at him to be quiet.
He’d ignore me.
I’d yell some more, and he’d turn the roar my way, Hound of the Baskervilles, suburban edition.
Then he’d dig his way out of his kennel, beating his owner (my neighbor) in another round of canine chess, fly around the backyards, a streak of deadly white delighted with mudpuddles, and leave a present for me in the garden.
I’d have to laugh ruefully. We spoke the same language.
Then the neighbor would catch him, put him back in jail, and Joe would sit forlornly in the dirt, throw his head back, and howl.
This happened many times.
And sometimes he’d just sit there, and stare into space.
It’s also an accurate parallel of my creative process.
I tried to figure out tenets of art yesterday as route 29 stretched forever into the night. Tried to formulate an antidote to propaganda, how to build instead of tear down, how to be original instead of reactionary, to play a good game instead of a copycat game.
I pondered the creeping Great Stupid, the flattening of big ideas into blocky neon colors and faceless happy people used by governments and grocery stores to convince me all is well.
I might as well have been howling like Joe.
Nope. Still nothing.
Nothing except the “delete” key.
I’ve got one up on Joe in that regard.
To be continued…
Josh