Creative constipation

Aagh, suddenly I've lost the door to the creative room. If I don't do something every day, these crazy Jack and the Beanstalk weeds grow up in, like, an hour and it's really hard to find my way in. Then, cleaning the stove becomes very important (well, that's metaphorically, 'cause I haven't been doing that either. In fact, today I have been doing pretty much stuff all, really, trying to do just what I want to do instead of what I should do - and consequently not getting dressed until 5pm :).

The difference these days is that I know that those weeds look really high, but their roots don't go down deep. They are paper weeds with paper roots. Indeed, sometimes I can pull the entire thing out in 5 minutes. But still, while I'm creatively choked, instead I'm reading other people's stuff, and loving this poem from Urbanmonk:

A Poem is a Suffocating Fish

Ive learnt
from all the crushing
and squeezing and straining
by that invisible hand
that seems to push your life
through a sieve like lumpy batter
that a poem is not a statement
but some plumbing
of the souls pond
hauling suffocating
fish up onto dry land

You cook them
they get smaller
and crispy
And then you eat them again
or serve them to your friends