Between the Dream and the Deed

I'm stuck. I mean really stuck. Stuck like a car that whirred helplessly in a slurry of muddy ice for an hour and then was abandoned to the cold; frozen in place until a miraculous thaw. I am deep in the doldrums, my sails limp. Not even a whisper of wind to push my tiny vessel forward.

Still, "Between the dream and the deed lie the doldrums" reads a favourite quote from Herb Payson.

Langston Hughes once wrote:
Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die,
Life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly,
Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams go,
Life is a barren field, frozen with snow.
And part of Sylvia Plathe's poem Ennui reads:
Tea leaves thwart those who court catastrophe,
designing futures where nothing will occur:
cross the gypsy’s palm and yawning she
will still predict no perils left to conquer.

So what shall I do to break from of this pattern of listless lassitude? I have joined a class with Tam in which I hope to gain some skill with artistic whimsy. The closest I feel I've ever come to whimsical could be closely compared to any attempt thereto Oscar Wilde may have made. Sardonic, satirical...but with the best of core intentions might be a better description. Sadly, a talent with all things cute and/or whimsical I fear I have naught.

But perhaps learning to paint with a flourish of violet, a spangle of copper, or even a lyrical spray of lilac or lavender will push me suddenly into the sunlight again. And perhaps, just perhaps, the most delicate touch of pink (oh, not PINK! Gad!) is in my near future.
And who knows? Maybe I will come out of the tunnel on Willy Wonka's mad boat ride with a fresh attitude of appreciation for things light and silly. Maybe my sails will suddenly luft with a freshening breeze, and a school of flying fish in silvery pastels will lead me back to the current.