I should give up the blog altogether. I’ve been going through a period of low creativity lately and blogging about it has not been on my to do list.
But, I’ve been thinking. Reading. Refilling the well with new information. I am waiting now for the payoff and waiting isn’t my strong suit.
What I need to do is get down to it and write a bunch of crap which I’ve been resisting. Allow the brain to work its connective magic, there is no other way that each synapse is going to know that it isn’t doing its job. The pretty genius in the corner needs to get out of the corner and meet me half way. There is nothing else really going on that is that distracting except what I distract myself with.
Not that I haven’t been writing and occasionally putting out something worth sharing and so I blame that end of the year burst and depression that followed. To which I am heavily medicated against now but also medicated against the severity of another mania which I miss and see flickers of here and there fighting for attention.
Giving up the blog would be an act of honesty as I now am feeling the dishonesty of keeping up the appearance of having one. Would all three of my readers miss my occasional outreach? Would you notice? Are there more than three of you?
I am reaching for the bottle here and wishing for the stars… the sun and the moon, the shaky days of not knowing if I had a clean uniform for work and if I was going to be fired for my latest outright challenge to the authority of a nameless supervisor. I had never wanted to work but now it is all I want to do. Being disabled/retired at 35 is not all it may seem to be but there is the small check from government and endless guns to play with when no-one is looking.
here is something newish which I was going to send to Take it to the streets but missed the deadline. It is for my wife – the muse that keeps me alive and reaching for the stars.
with cold hands
it’s cold
so I touch the warmth of her thighs
with cold hands, she shivers
gaily we dance under soft comforters
beneath the sounds of jazz belonging to another decade
before our birth
the windows closed locking out the colder winds
we warm and embrace, sweat heat in loving
the minutiae of such good fucking
– Hoc Scripsi
the platitudes of willful resemblance 