gray days

28May09

i have writers block.  i’ve always had it.  since the beginning.  and it just got worse.  i got worse.  as i got better i got worse.  the time between pages grew longer.  the pauses between words stretched out forever.  it feels good to say it:  i have writers block.  or i have some kind of block.  some one thing i’m not seeing clearly that could be erased from my life, from my sight, from my diet.  i could clear it out and let things start circulating again.  but what is it.  how to find it.  hypnosis, meditation.  maybe i’m on a cycle.  i’ll let it complete its course and when i’m 40 or 50 or 60 the real writing will begin.  or i have writers block.  i wrote twice last year.  once in march, again in september.  the last time was the most tragic.  i spent three months on one page worth of words.  three months and the thing is still sloppy but i pretend not to notice because to fix it would require years of revision and i don’t have it in me to face that kind of suffering.  not yet.  i can’t be a writer and produce like this.  it’s pathetic, or an ailment, or a mind game, or possibly (unlikely) simply authentic.  i remember feeling blissful and focused.  i don’t remember the bliss and the focus, i just remember feeling that way when i produced well.  what am i doing being lost like this.  it’s a peculiar and hopeless fright.  a fever.  taking over.  and i do it all in a vacuum without consoling or stopping for pleasant distractions.  i just walk the balance beam of discontent and stagnancy always brave enough to jump off, always, but there is nothing to land on.  and it’s not about taking risks, not this part, it’s about being nourished and warm.  this part is about having enough to build with.  it’s about collecting weaknesses and strengths and burying them underground and dreaming up the image of what you want to see grow.  and then it grows.  and it’s the color of your insides.  and you smell it.  and you eat it and blow its seeds into the wind and plant it again and imagine it again and then you chop it to pieces because it’s a part of you and you’re a part of everything else so nothing is ever destroyed and nothing is ever wasted.  this part is about being so full of fats and cream and believing it and not returning to your frozen self who only has an appetite for metal.

Filed under: brain matter, evolution, knives, moss child, parade, the most civil, what the world is made of   |  2 Comments