i've been dreaming alot. especially in the morning. waking and then nodding off again. short disconnected narratives. i only seem to dream in color in the morning. maybe it has something to do with the light. i don't remember much of these dreams. except that they are full. full of people and portent, ideas and action. probably because i've been reading doris lessing's the golden notebook. in fact, some mornings, i will wake and read for a spell and then drift off again to more philosophical musings in a dreamscape.

it's a proper novel. about things. serious things. race, gender, class, romantic love, filial love, sex, communism, truth, beauty, honesty, self. and it has been having an effect on me. you see, i've been thinking a lot about these sorts of proper intellectual pursuits for quite some time now and ms. lessing's book has provided a bit of focus to these otherwise disjointed contemplations. as you know, i've been passing through an awkward stage for awhile. and i feel as though i've just begun to get to the heart of it in the last few days.

yet, answers only lead to more questions. but of course they do. primarily, i've been ruminating on creativity. what is it, what it means, how it is expressed, the consequences of denying its expression. by me, by others close to me, by others tangential to me, by strangers. both in a tangible and theoretical sense. several days ago, this one talked about cooking as his creative outlet. this morning, i was reading a passage in the golden notebook about cooking and began to extrapolate from there about the simplicity and artistry of preparing a meal for oneself, or others. the sense of purpose, of accomplishment, associated with a meal enjoyed after the labour of preparation. is it the labour that makes it noble? something out of nothing.

it is rare in our society to consume (use, wear, etc.) what we create, because it is so rare for us to create. fast food, microwave dinners, take out. creation is something done by others. the service industry. but then, isn't even this a classist concern? something drawn straight from the hierarchy of needs? how quaint to consider the labour involved with something like a meal as, i posited before, noble. but it is less about the labour and more about the creation. the creative impulse. the desire to make something. whether it be a meal, or a painting, or a birdhouse, or a song, or a sandcastle, or a novel. and for most people, modern life offers no real outlet for this creativity, leaving it stifled, to who knows what end.

i wonder quite often these days what my creative outlets are. how i express that desire to make something where there was nothing. when i was much younger, i sang and i acted. in fifth grade, i wanted to be an author. by eighth grade, a lawyer. in college, i was a film/video major for awhile. was it a lack of encouragement that weaned me from these pursuits? or lack of confidence in my creative talents? maybe a little of both, probably.

on saturday night, a friend of a friend stopped me as i was singing along to the jukebox to state, quite surprised, that i had a lovely singing voice. but i don't sing. strangers that have stumbled across my diary have praised my writing style, my voice. and yet, i don't write. why not? that's what i'm trying to figure out. probably something to do with fear of rejection, to risk myself, the real me, on the inside. maybe it's an inability to commit, to myself, to my own creative impulses, to letting go enough to put it out there. maybe it's the possibility of embarassment. maybe i'm just plain lazy. maybe...