>Pfffft Goes the Weasel

>I have been given this curse of desperation to create, and sometimes I think it drives me crazy.

I want to craft the perfect album or tweak the perfect tone or word a perfect sentence or speak with perfect fluency or think with perfect clarity and when I can't, the river dams up. If you can't get one, the spring says, you can't get any. Catch a fish or they all swim away.

We were created creative beings, for we are like Him who created us. But this is a frustrated, downtrodden creative being. I'll toss blame to one side or the other, blaming school or work simply because they're there and they take up all of my time. The funny thing about creativity is that it exists outside of time and the excuse about being busy is a cop-out. You don't pencil in time on your schedule to be creative, knowing that if that lunch date comes along that bout with creativity will be bumped to next Monday. No, instead that little handle turns and you listen to the music and when it springs with a small hint of laughter and surprise you are caught off guard no matter what task is at hand. You can't help but react.

I think my box is defective, because I've been doing all the right things. I've cleared the table, dimmed the lights, focused all of my attention on the box in front of me, and I've been turning the arm now for endless cycles of "pop goes the weasel" waiting for the jack to make his surprising exit. But this monkey keeps chasing that stupid weasel around the bush and every time I stop to pull up my sock, the weasel is nowhere to be found.

Hamilton Barber

The subject of this page is an introverted writer/musician/lunatic from Chattanooga, TN who dabbles in lexical dexterity, unorthodox thoughts on prosperity, and being overwhelmingly undeserving of the privilege of waking up every day. He hopes that everybody who reads these words takes them to heart and leaps higher than he ever could. He reads, thinks, and speaks too much; he listens, works, and loves too little; and he says “I” entirely too often. The words on these pages are not his: they are the words that were given to him.