“Mansfield doesn’t have a vibe,” I said.
“Mansfield doesn’t have a vibe,” she agreed
“I hate it here,” I said.
“I know you do,” she said.
“I miss Paris,” I said.
The light changed. We crossed.
I have what John Koenig, in The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows, calls “ozurie.” He invented the word to describe the feeling of being caught between your drab, ordinary life and another one that is more technicolor and sparkly.
He mashed up the word Oz (as in Wizard of) and prairie to make this word, Ozurie. You pronounce it: “oz-you-ree.”
It’s Dorothy’s dilemma. The whole time she’s stuck in Kansas, she dreams of flying over the rainbow. When she finally gets there, all she wants is to go back home.
But once back in Kansas, all she can think of is OZ. “She dreams in color, but she lives in black and white.” (P.19)
That’s how I’m feeling now. But now that I know there is always an adjacent possible, I’m starting to look for it.
The adjacent possible is a term first coined by Stuart A. Kauffman in his book, At Home In The Universe but pioneered by Steven Johnson. Here’s Johnson’s definition:
The adjacent possible is a kind of shadow future, hovering on the edges of the present state of things, a map of all the ways in which the present can reinvent itself…[the adjacent possible] captures both the limits and the creative potential of change and innovation.— Steven Johnson (Smith, 2010)
I think of this adjacent possible world as floating dimly alongside my so-called real world.
All it takes for it to come into sharp focus for me is to notice it.
Or summon it to me, like Glinda The Good Witch of the North. Then pay attention to it.
I’m not in the habit of noticing it yet, but I’m practicing. When I know I have options, I feel freer.
And more creative. I actually think this is what makes artists artists: we look for the adjacent possible in everything.
I’m not stuck in Mansfield; I have many options. I’m just not exercising any of them now, but they are still adjacently possible.
Inspiration Location 