I punch the "Command-S" on the Mac keyboard sending whatever mundane project I'd been working on into the depths of some cyber world of "ones" and "zeroes" for momentary safe keeping, then push myself away from the desk with an almost exasperated gush of air from my pursed lips hoping the reflexive gesture might relieve some of the boredom induced stress.
It's 10, 10:30 am which is the approximate time I attempt to take a break, and a walk, on days when my work schedule allows. I remove my Payless knock-off of some name brand pair of sport sandals and slip on a pair more conducive to the task at hand. Cheap shoes have their place when you sit at a graphics computer all day, but not for the knees of a forty-eight year old "afterlete" who seems to find a new body part that functions just a little less efficiently than it did the day before–can rigor mortis set in over the course of years, even decades, before anyone actually takes the Big Dirt Nap? I'm beginning to believe.
Bi-pedal covers donned securely in place, I stand at the door way of my office, indifferently check both ways like an obedient child readying himself to cross the street, to see if there are any co-workers in my direct line of escape that I may have to passively chat up before I continue on.
As luck would have it, today the coast is clear and I proceed to the door of the second story exit and outside stair well–this again done to avoid any time consuming small talk that might delay me by taking the downstairs warehouse route. I push firmly on the breaker bar and the door glides open almost as if the building actually wants to yield me to the outside world. I step out onto the stairwell terrace and it seems I've entered a new dimension of existence; the warmth of the sun immediately engulfs my senses and urges me to take the decent on the stairs much quicker than my years would suggest I could, or for that matter, should.
But who cares? Now a sense of freedom wells from my stomach outward, pulsing thru me like like blood thru a purebred race horse at the starting gate….. until each extremity is filled with a certain tingle of euphoria. The synthetic scents of this industrial part of town mingle with those of the summer flora smattering the area. An article about the creative process I read just a week or so ago comes to mind; "What we (creatives) really need are more "visceral" experiences to better understand and communicate with our audience. It’s often why the best ideas don’t come to you while you’re sitting in front of a computer. But too many companies demand butts in seats, behind screens, at all times. The appearance of busy-ness trumps the pursuit of differentiated thinking."… oh yeah… I can relate.
"This isn't about my health" I justify… "this is about my creative survival… my sanity". And so, I walk.
