My Keys Are Not My Car—And Other Cosmic Purrs

This almost just happened: I’m standing in a parking lot, jangling a fistful of keys like some deranged maestro, yelling at the asphalt, “DRIVE ME, YOU FOOL!” Nothing moves. Not a tire twitch. Not a vroom. Because—plot twist—my keys? They are not my car.

Madness, right? Who’d even think that? No one in their right mind left mind, or upside-down mind would mistake a little key for a full-on, gas-guzzling, road-ripping machine. And yet, here we are, spinning in the delicious absurdity of it all.

Keys don’t roar. They don’t peel out. They don’t blast Queen at midnight with the windows down. But oh, baby, they do one thing so well —unlock. They slide into that ignition slot like a secret handshake, whispering, “Let’s roll, baby.” Without them, your car’s just a shiny hunk of metal sulking in the driveway. No keys, no go. No gas, no glory. No license, no law-abiding joyride. It’s a system, a dance, a cosmic symphony of DADA.

Now—lean in close, Conscious Creative, because here’s where the Dada rubber hits the surreal road: your creativity? This is the same damn deal.

Your talent—your acting, your writing, your painting, your belting-out-opera-in-the-shower vibes—that’s the car. Sleek, powerful, ready to burn rubber down the freeway of your wildest dreams.

But the key? That’s your state of being. That’s the breath, the movement, the electric hum of you-ness that turns the engine over.

Breathing isn’t your creativity. Nope. It’s not the paintbrush or the script or the high note that shatters glass. It’s the key. The jangly, unassuming, slip-it-in-your-pocket spark that unlocks the whole damn ride. All the fun, the head turns, the big smiles, and the freedom you feel at the helm.

Think about it—your breath shifts when you’re lost in a poem, words dripping like honey from some ancient muse’s lips. Slows. Deepens. When you’re dancing, hips swaying like a storm’s brewing, your lungs sync up, puffing out a rhythm only your soul knows. Walking in nature? That crisp air hits differently—your chest opens, your stride finds its groove, and suddenly, you’re not just walking; you have entered your state of being.

Breath’s the common thread, the sneaky little maestro conducting the chaos. It’s not the song—it’s the silence between the notes. Not the dance—it’s the pulse beneath the steps. Not the car—it’s the key that says, “Go.”

And here’s the kicker: once you’re cruising down that creative freeway, wind in your hair, story unspooling like a Lynchian fever dream—do you sit there obsessing about the key? Hell no. It’s in the ignition, doing its quiet work, while you’re too busy swerving through plot twists or belting arias to care. The key’s job is done. You’re driving now.

So why’s this matter, you glorious weirdo? Because we get it twisted. We chase the car—the big, shiny talent—and forget that the key is what gets us in. We hoard tricks like magpies—music to spark us, poetry to woo us, nature walks to wake us—but miss the one thing tying it all together: breath. It’s the Dada glue, the universal jangle, the portal to your state of being.

I can see Rick Rubin in the studio, barefoot, grinning like a Zen trickster. He’s not fussing over the mic—he’s feeling the room’s vibe and breath. Or David Lynch, tilting his head at a flickering bulb, letting the weirdness breathe through him before it hits the screen as I hear that “Blue Velvet” song one more time. Wim Wenders, chasing horizons, knows the road’s alive when he inhales its dust. Fincher? That man’s precision cuts like a blade, but the quiet exhale between takes sharpens it. Breath is the KEY, every time.

Me? I’ve picked breath as my go-to. Not because it’s fancy—hell, it’s the least sexy tool in the shed—but because it’s direct. It’s the skeleton key to every door in my creative house. Singing? Breath. Moving? Breath. Writing this blog? Breath, baby—inhale the madness, exhale the words. It’s the one thing that doesn’t care if I’m painting or howling at the moon—it just works.

But you? Your keys might shimmer differently. It could be a bassline that rattles your ribs. Maybe it’s a haiku that cracks you open. Perhaps it’s the crunch of leaves underfoot. Whatever it is, it’s not the car—it’s the access. The unlock. The ignition.

And here’s the payoff, the big Dada bow on this wild ride: your creative life’s waiting. That car—your talent, genius, and “holy-crap-I-made-that” brilliance—is parked, engine purring, ready to tear up the road. But you’ve gotta find YOUR KEYS. Stop staring at the car like it’ll drive itself. Dig into your state of being. Breathe. Move. Feel. Unlock it.

Because of my keys? They’re not my car. And your breath? It’s not your art. It’s just the magic that makes it go.

So twist that key, Conscious Creative. Floor it. The freeway’s wide open, and the world’s dying to see where you take us.

Where creativity breathes,

Joshua