It seems that creativity is adaptive, like anything else. When a space becomes available, work emerges to fill it. The genius, the emergence of a truly remarkable and memorable work, happens when the thing is perfectly suited to its context and is also surprising. And when something works, it strikes us as not just being clever — a good adaptation — but as strongly and emotionally resonant. When the right thing is in the right place we are moved.
What seems obvious by now is that emotion, passion and personal expression can be poured into whatever form or vessel becomes available. And that form and those structures are determined primarily by the available venues — be they a club or an arena in music, a blog entry, a forest, or a white gallery wall.
Perhaps I've been lost in the woods of quietude, to appropriate Silliman's label and use it for my own purpose, IE as terminology to describe lack of blog posting, actually, writing of any sort for more than a month, this not being about being so-called blocked but about not having the words, no, having the words but not having the space or form to put all the words into just now, but the form being formulated in the imagination, mine that is, the outer life taking precedence over the inner but the inner making its shape visible for filling via dreams, via reading (the Icelandic Sagas being voyaged through), via running, via teaching.