Iguana!
I haven’t worn these boots since 2008 which is far too long. I believe I’ll be cowgirling it tomorrow. As well as dusting the dust off the boots, I’m dusting the blog off. I feel better when I write and, dammit, I’m gonna blather on.
I haven’t been able to write these past few weeks, months, years. It seems that I have nothing to say, but I talk to myself constantly. Clearly, I have plenty to say, but the tyranny of the blank page is winning.
I’m not sure what my problem is, but it’s as if all my words have dried up and blown away. I sit down to write and nothing comes out. Or sometimes, I get drivel.
[Warning: the following is probably drivel.]
But it’s not drivel I wish to write. Like many writers, I want to reveal the mysteries of the universe. Or at the very least entertain with a good story. It seems I am all out of new stories and I don’t feel like telling the old ones.
I tried to join a writing group tonight. I got stood up. Or I misunderstood the time or the place. Or something. It struck me that joining a writing group to force me to write was either pitiful or a stroke of genius. I’m also considering a graduate degree in creative writing. Also either genius or pitiful. Perhaps I need deadlines. Externally imposed deadlines. I’m not good at corralling myself.
I need to write. I’ve often said that I don’t know what I think until I write it out. The process of putting words in order orders my thoughts in a way that nothing else does. I need to write. And I can’t.
This is getting tiresome.
Gathering Hours
A dim vastness
My soul beseeched
The gathering hours
Of this moment’s calm.
A silver shadow
Pierces the darkness
But a glimmering veil
To hide these thoughts
Stillness.
Solitude.
As one
Yet taken together.
A memory gone.
An hour finished
Moments to come are many.
DBH 1976
I am just all discombobulated. I think it’s because I worked Thursday and Friday of this week.
I have not worked the stretch between Christmas Eve and New Year’s since 1988. Because of this and that, I went back to work on the 26th and plan on working every day but the 1st. My internal clock and calendar are just whirling about in confusion.
This past Thursday, I was convinced it was January 2nd and was trying to figure out what happened to the week between Christmas and New Year’s. Now it’s Saturday and I’m trying to enforce some downtime on myself as I have every reason to be exhausted, but my mind is whirling with all the things I need to do to have the house ready for the arrival of Carruthers (my sort-of step-daughter) on January 7th. By my clock, January 7th is upon me, but all the others indicate I’ve got some time.
You can’t just do something one way for 26 years and stop willy nilly. I will not be working this week next year – it’s just too hard on me.
So, if it were indeed the new year, I would be prattling on about resolutions and the lack thereof and assorted and sundry topics related to such. And I feel like writing, but don’t have anything timely to say.
I am really out of step. The answer may be wine.
