Then came a spider
NPR has been running a series on creative spaces; the environments authors, actors, musicians and others find most conducive to creativity. Last week was writer Daniel Silva, who holes himself up in a basement room no one is allowed to enter. No one, except NPR and its millions of listeners.
This week was Felicia Rashad, the actress played by New York attorney Claire Huxtable. She likes the botanical gardens in Manhattan; it’s her way of getting in touch with nature, which she says is her greatest inspiration. Sounds good to me, except that communing with nature in the middle of Manhattan is like looking for classical music at Wal-Mart. Plus, she’s got money, Cliff’s a doctor, they can afford a vacation. Oh, right, I forgot, can’t leave Rudy at home with LeoTheo, he’ll probably have an out-of-control party. Pbbbth, beeep, bap!
So, NPR’s been doing this for weeks now. Another creative space was a barn, filled with odd knick-knacks and eccentricities. A coffee shop, a library, a McDonald’s. All perfectly interesting, stimulating choices. Of course, you kind of get the feeling that a truly, brilliantly creative person wouldn’t be particular about where they create. In a way, having a special place for being creative seems childish. Like having a special hat you use to think about difficult things.
But, childish or not, ask anybody who writes, makes music, paints or does anything else that requires both concentration and imagination, and you’ll probably find that there’s a certain place where they like to do it best.
Here’s one of mine:
There is a hairline crack, fine as floss, running down the center of this room. From the ceiling, through the darkness, all the way to my computer. At the end of the tiny yellow string is what appears to be an albino spider. He’s making a move towards my computer, which sits on my lap, because it is a laptop computer. Makes sense.
This is the front porch, the place I go when a) I want to commune with nature, Felicia Rashad-style, or b) my roommates are communing with the PlayStation 2. There’s a bench-swing covered in cheap floor mats I got at Home Depot for $2 a piece. There’s a cold glass of water on the windowsill to my left where it is accompanied, sometimes, by a cookie. Mint Milano, chocolate chip, etc.
Today the water came stag. The cookies are inside on the dining room table urging me to hurry up.
Besides the spider, who, truth be told, I’ve never seen around here before, there is an ivy vine which has for some time been growing in through a crack in the window. It thinks it’s people. I’m already doing all I can to grow plants inside, so I don’t mind it, although I wish it’d use the door. But that’s ivy for ya’.
The view from here is residential. Three streetlights and their smooth, night-colored street. Across it there is a big elm tree which I call Sideshow Bob because of its uncanny resemblance (in both appearance and personality) to the Simpsons’ number two villain. On my side of the street is a huge oak which I call The Oak That Nearly Smashed My House. Or just Smashy.
And as if all these things were not inspiration enough, for the past two nights there has been a disgusting slug/beetle perched at the top of the concrete steps, sunning itself in the yellow electrical glow. I wanted to smash him yesterday but I thought better of it and today I’m glad I didn’t; he hasn’t moved an inch. He appears to be hibernating in plain sight in the middle of a busy thoroughfare (our sidewalk), which makes him the stupidest little monstrosity I’ve ever encountered. But he’s real charming about it, so I like him.
I don’t know how long he will stay there. But neither he nor I can stay out here that much longer (lows in the 40s forecast later this week). August is draining away, down a funnel of drama, and soon coming out to the porch to write will be like going to the Arctic Ocean to swim.
But for now it’s the best room in the house. Crickets chirp their love songs. The trees breathe in great heaving sighs. A silly beetle sleeps in danger’s path. Now and then a car goes by.