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Daily Obstruction: Writing Exercise in Futility

1 Oct


Writing Exercise in Futility


Alone in my cell, I use imaginary paint to cover the walls with the images of my dreams for no other reason than to forget for a brief moment that they imprison me in my solitary confinement.  Or is my cell a figment of my imagination?


Daily Obstruction: In Mozart’s Workshop

23 Sep


In Mozart’s Workshop


Radios transmit, they don’t create.  So too with minds.

Daily Obstruction: Travels

6 Sep




If dreams are the highway to the unconscious, then art is the byway from the unconscious.

Daily Obstruction: The Sad State of the Written Word

17 Jul



The Sad State of the Written Word



The idea of an author, creator, inspired visionary is rapidly losing ground to data-driven documents published on demand.  These data-drivers aren’t even producing books, but e-books, which are not testaments in time, but rather, literally, movable type that may say something else tomorrow than they do today if the data so dictates.

Daily Obstruction: The Creative Process

26 May


Creative Process


A good measure of obscurity, opacity, and self-ignorance is necessary for the creative process.  As a result, the person least fit to elucidate a work of art is the artist.


[Though it may appear that the Daily Obstruction for 05/25/2016 is missing, this is actually the post for that date because where I am now it is still May 25.  Earlier today I didn’t have access to internet at the beach or in the mountains (thank goodness).  Aloha!]

Daily Obstruction: Horror Vaccui

29 Apr


Horror Vaccui


Just as many people feel intimidated by the blank canvas before them and would prefer a color-by-number picture to creating an original work of art, so too do many people stand in horror before the possibilities that life places before them and prefer to follow the well-worn paths of others and obey “the rules” rather than make their own path and own rules.

Daily Obstruction: In Medias Res

11 Apr


In Medias Res


“When you write a novel, do you start with a concept or a character?” he asked.

“Sometimes concepts become characters, other times characters exemplify concepts,” I said.

“Which am I?” he demanded of me.

“That depends,” I said.

“On what?” he asked with both skepticism and fear in his voice.

“On where this story began – with a concept or a character.”

“Only you can tell me that,” he said, impudently, folding his arms.

“That may be true, or. . .”

“Or what?”

“Or, maybe there is no beginning to this story.  Maybe you just came into existence.  Don’t you remember?”

“Only if you give me such a memory.”

“Well, let me ask you this: What does it matter to you?”

“What does what matter to me?”

“What does it matter whether you began as a concept or as a character?”

He pondered for a moment and then spoke slowly, “I don’t know that it makes a difference, but I’d prefer to know one way or the other.  I suppose I’d feel less. . . real. . . as a concept.”

“But by now you’d be a character.  A real character.”

“Maybe,” he said, “but only if you’re good at your craft.  Otherwise, I’m just a strawman, a stand-in, a ringer for something more ethereal.”

“Well, I can tell you, unequivocally, now you are either a full-blown character or a concept with personality.  In either case, I couldn’t tell the difference between the two.”

“Let me ask you this. . .”