Somehow I have to kick a bit of creativity from my backside (or frontside–I’m not picky as to the origin) by Thursday. I’m going to exhibit with a diverse group of artists for Greenville’s First Friday art series, and I’m thrilled. The space on Pendleton Street is raw and gritty as my favorite Gulf-plucked treat: oysters.
I can feel a new painting seeping in. Yes, there it is–the urge to create–mysterious and compelling as the Indian Pipes at which we stooped to marvel near Craggy Pinnacle. The Corpse Plant and I have much in common. This wraith sucks nutrients from a fungus which sucks nutrients from a tree. In return, it offers its translucent brilliance to the world above.
I crouch, mesmerized at bells curving swanlike toward the rich, black earth in an ephemeral grace. The spindly ghost plant begs for the slightest caress, and I offer a fingertip along the slender neck, a whisper of a touch in praise–the touch I reserve for newborns and butterfly wings.
I, too, function at a level of parasitism as I feed vicariously on all the ideas of all who’ve come before. I rearrange common ground until it sounds fresh and appears interesting (to me). The nature of creativity, like Indian Pipes, remains delicate, best discussed in hushed tones.
Them bones finally going to walk around. Give me some damn purpose, some soul I can share!