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Instructions for Creative Living: At the dentist’s office
First of all, notice the background music. Shania Twain? Chumbawamba? Is that instrumental Smash Mouth? Notice the feelings you feel, and the ages you once were that remain in conversation with these feelings. Notice everything inside you getting stirred up by this metal-on-enamal soundtrack. Does the music remind you of being young? Does the music remind you of before you were born? Listen and notice, channeling your inner Clarice.
You’ve got some time, so why not look for a deconstructed rainbow. Is the dental hygienist wearing a hint of red? Do your socks, that sliver of fabric peaking out between jean and shoe, have any orange on them? Is the light from the outside world still yellow? Is the light from the outside world yellow yet? Keep going.
Let’s not forget about why you’re here: assign a word to every tooth, following along at the hygienist’s pace. First molar: “flannel.” Second premolar: “marshmallow.” First canine: “seafoam.” First incisor: “labradoodle.” Don’t overthink it: if ever there were a time and space for your inner critic to take an hour off, don’t you think it’s here, now?
You probably won’t remember any of these assigned words later on, at least not more than a few of them. This is okay. Experiment with letting go as a creative act in itself. Experiment with storing memories in the body rather than the conscious brain. Not everything held needs to be recitable.
Now take a moment to remember your dreams from last night. Go ahead, practice remembering—this despite what you were just practicing in step #4. Contradictions are nothing to be afraid of.
In the empty space where you struggle to remember your dreams from last night, what images—totally unrelated to your dreams, because those are long gone or never stuck around to begin with—are showing up instead? These images might not be from your actual dreams, but they’re important nonetheless, and they contain valuable data. Because they showed up. Because you brought them into your mind yourself. Isn’t that what writing is, anyway? Making a choice + playing pretend.
What are the textures holding your body in time and space right now? The feel of the chair, the consistency of the light above you. So many surfaces, each with their own quality. Catalogue them in your thoughts as if you were compiling samples for a future design project, one where you’ll need to be able to show potential clients one or two examples of what being held in time and space can feel like. What’s it like being in your body right now? is what I’m asking you.