So, I'm walking with Saty to get our afternoon coffee and talk like we do most every day between three and four. I have my camera and I'm snapping this and snapping that and I blurt out, "Fuck! I hate art!"
Saty says, "You do so much constantly, you should probably take a break." I know what he's saying; new perspectives and fresh palate and such.
I further explain, "It's not that I'm burned out or bored or frustrated. I just love some of the stuff I've seen lately and hate the mess I'm creating right now."
He says, "I know what you mean. For me it comes in waves. I intensely do stuff for a month then take several months off. I'm always afraid that I'm all dried up though."
"I know! That's totally my biggest fear," I declare. "I can't stop though. I take my pictures and I'm working on this recording project..."
"You should do something different," Saty suggests. "Maybe take a class." A class, I think. Fuck that. I don't really want to take a class. "Oh, I see. I should take a writing class. Force myself to do something different."
"Yeah! That's it!" Saty suggests, as an exercise, that I write two pages a day -- force myself to write two pages a day -- for seven straight days. Fiction. Do it!
Wow. That's hard core. I like the challenge, but I'm not ready.
Yet.
