One of the things I've been struggling with in this Trumpian episode of The Twilight Zone we now find ourselves living in is a complete and utter lack of passion about pretty much anything (my relationships notwithstanding) that I used to throw myself into with abandon.
I still enjoy writing/blogging (such that it is) and there are television shows I get caught up in, but when it comes down to actually creating, the fire's gone out.
I have a friend (well, actually two friends) who gush over my painting and photography (one of whom has a fantasy of me opening my own gallery, bless her heart) and are constantly asking when I'm going to start putting brush to canvas or taking photos again. I tell them both that the Muses have (hopefully only temporarily, I tell even myself) forsaken me for whatever reason—but I worry sometimes that it goes deeper than that.
I've been in such a funk since the 2016 election I simply don't care about creating much of anything any more. I mean, why bother? The world has gone to hell and the Cheeto-faced Shitgibbon in the White House is well on the way to undoing an entire generation's worth of American progress and obliterating our country's standing in the world in less than two years —with no end to this destruction in sight.
PAINTING
I simply have no passion. There is no fire burning within me to create the way it used to. I now consider the amount of work required to produce a painting and immediately think, "Ain't nobody got time for that." I shouldn't be thinking of it as work, at all, for chrissake! It should be an expression of joy! (My last painting—Ben's portrait—was actually done nearly ten years ago, so it can't be based wholly on the illegitimate presidency of the Orange Russian Wig Stand, but this lack of desire to pick up a paint brush has certainly been exacerbated by it.) I've had other dry spells that have gone longer than ten years without producing a single painting, so I'm not worried that the Muses have abandoned me completely, but more and more I look at Ben's portrait and catch myself wondering if that actually is my last painting.
PHOTOGRAPHY
I also can't tell you the last time I went out with my camera—or even just my phone—for the express purpose of simply taking photos.
No, wait. That's a lie. It was about ayear ago when we drove down to Picacho Peak to photograph the poppies. Prior to that it was December 2016 when I went out out to see the architecturally interesting White Tank Library.
In those rare instances when the photo bug has bitten me, more often than not I go to grab my camera and discover the battery pack is dead and needs to be charged. By the time it's charged the urge has passed. (Granted, for 90% of the types of photography I do, my phone will suffice—and more and more it actually surpasses the results I get from my DSLR—so I can't really use the dead battery defense as much as I'd like to, but you get the drift.)
I used to make photo books for those same friends as holiday gifts; this last year I hadn't taken enough photos I considered worthy enough to even bother putting one together. I miss doing photography, but not yet enough to get me out and about and wanting to take photos simply for the sake of taking photos.
Don't get me wrong. I still take hundreds of photos every year—but none are done with any planning or purpose. And damn few are what I would personally consider high art (worthy of actually printing out and framing).
My friends respond to my current lack-of-creativity with, "Well you need to do something to get your mind off this horror show." Yes, I know. But right now I simply have absolutely no desire to make anything, and therein lies the rub.