You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
stifling creative energy.
In the course of 24 hours, I have been told no less than twice to mute my effusive personality.
The mechanism that informed me of this has the creative luster of a truck stop bathroom.
Normally, I am a broken sprinkler of enthusiasm. I gush, I flow, I am an expansive neutron star of thought and delicious exasperation.
I spew from the mouth like a volcanic belch. I am a walking superlative, a diabolical expletive, a righteous blast of indignation and bluster.
I wear ties that look like a neon colored forest fire. I like my neck wear to be endorsed by a beer company. Most of my ties explode off my rack like a damsel in distress.
When I create, I get bored easily, so I try to make each sentence, each edit, each swish of color, blow off the chart.
Recently I have been asked to tone down my uniqueness.
The first request was odd. Wear less bright ties. That tie you wore last friday was too orange. I listen to the message and wonder if Alan Funt is going to burst out of the bathroom and say “surprise, you’re on Candid Camera.”
I roll my eyes and go with the flow.
OK. Less bright ties.
But it gets me to thinking. If orange is the new black. Is muted the new glitter?
What is acceptable neck garb?
drab? Black? Ho hum?
When you are stifled creatively, you have to find other ways to emote.
I tried Happy socks hiding just under my pant leg.
When you sit down, an inch or two peeks out and speaks to the world.
It’s exciting.
Will the fashion police stop by and tap me on the shoulder.
“excuse me. Your socks are too many shades of bright.”
Will I get a citation for too much fabric?
Is a shade of neon too creative for the observers?
I am the Wizard of Oz; a large floating head of laughter, dancing on the ether of boredom.
I like to create using stand alone dynamics that speak out loud.
“I am the great and powerful Oz” is my motivation, my mantra.
No more, I am told. Lose the Oz. Conform to the guidelines of acceptable mundaneness.
I am Michelangelo’s David and the totalitarian regime chisels away at my form, my being, the stone abdomen of my existence.
I am reminded that when you work in the machine, you are a cog in the mechanism.
To shine is to revolt. Uniqueness is heretical.
In each dark chapter of history, this is the beginning of the end.
Creativity is stifled. Bright lights are extinguished. Books are burned.
People who look like that, sound like them, come from that place are suddenly outlawed.
The mechanism that rules always wants control, wants conformity.
Don’t be bright orange when you can be muted grey.
Sunshine is out. Dreary skies are in.
When the machine is your keeper, you have two choices. You either work in the machine, or you take your creative road show somewhere else.
Over the course of humanity, when individuality is frowned upon, when creativity is suppressed, it raises serious questions.
When the machine rolls over the individual, the machine wins.
It’s only when like-minded individuals solidify, congeal and becomes a unifying force, that the machine war can be waged.
When you singularly dare to be different the machine will flush you into the abyss.
But when multiple filaments of sunshine bundle their light together in a singular statement of brilliant protest, the machine will have to back away.
If all the cogs in the machine all wear bright orange ties that blind the machine with neon solidarity, well then, and only then can creativity flourish.
Vanquish the machine. Long live the light.
Life’s crazy™