Maybe it is the smell of fresh-cut grass, blue skies overhead, warm temperatures and my steady walking pace that combine to stir up these marvelous creative juices. Only trouble is, the juices cease to flow and my mind becomes a complete blank the moment I stop cutting. Try as I may, I can never fully recover the inspiration that came so naturally and freely while trudging along behind the lawn mower in a mesmerized state just minutes before.
As much as I hate to admit to a developing short-term memory problem, I have to concede to the possibility. Under normal conditions when I come up with ideas or thoughts for stories, I immediately drop whatever else I might be doing, fire up the computer and bang off a few quick notes that will help me regain the train of thought at a later time. This routine works fairly well for me, but I do pay a price when Rosanne chastises me for abandoning dinner preparation at times or sees my computer monitor light flashing in the middle of the night. I am also not beyond pulling the car over to the side of the road to jot down a few thoughts when we are already late for a doctor's appointment.
Happily, my long-term memory seems to be as good as it ever was; although some people in my old hometown of Dresden may wish otherwise when I keep coming up with nostalgic tidbits from my early childhood. I fear that I rubbed a few of those folks the wrong way last year when I publicly sought an apology from the white community for discrimination against Blacks in the late 1800s to mid 1900s. Boy, think of the spew of indignation and shock if I ever took it upon myself to write about the Peyton Placeish dirty little secrets of that same period in good old Dresden. Not to worry though, a tell-all historian in the true sense, I am not.
Funny how on one hand I am struggling with short-term memory retention while on the other I suggest that I selectively suppress certain rather revealing memories that are the product of the very active and hush-hush rumor mill of past generations. Somewhat of a dichotomy, I must admit. And that's as much of a tease as I will ever offer on the subject.
Anyway, more to the topic, I am determined to find a way to capture those lost moments of creative energy while mowing the lawn. Maybe I can tie a tape recorder around my neck and orally dictate key points of inspiration as they come gushing forth over the loud hum of the mower. Better hurry too because the lawn cutting season does not last all that long.
One thing for sure, the readers of Wrights Lane will be the first to know when I have found a solution to this problem -- I'll suddenly begin to produce some of those "greatest stories and posts ever" that I have alluded to.
Putting pressure on myself like that seems to stimulate what is left of my abilities of short-term recall.
Come to think of it, I forgot that I left a pot boiling on the stove more than a half hour ago. Rosanne must have dozed off, otherwise I would have heard about it before now. Gotta run!