So tonight, having no children, they being away in another city, spending quality quality time with the inlaws, I went and bought the kitty litter and treats for a launch at work and sat down and had my usual Venti Soy Latte and brought it to my lips and sighed and smiled and picked up a pen and…
Not much I tell you. 2 poems, one terrible. 3 pages of something far too close to home to consider going forth with. The ringing feeling that I should write through my judgement-that I should write and write until my fingers are bleeding and torn and the words are massed into an omelete of sorts, all runny with things and items left behind in the crisper for weeks. I should disregard the belief that the spirit must move me-why should it? The muse has never been my friend before.
My fingers twitched for a cigarette. 4 years after quitting, years after being able to sit anywhere indoors and write, my fingers twitched and my mouth pursed and I remembered the smoke coiling up my face, around my head like armour and I would pause to remember where I was and what my end goal was and what I wanted and I twitched and squirrly like I mourned the loss of something disgusting yet oh so very helpful.
Writing, the writing I want to do-it’s hard. I can’t make my thoughts ferment. They stay barley and hops instead of becoming tasty nectar. They swirl and stir and whisper naughties into my ears, giggling. But they are very not helpful.
It’s not helpful either that I want to write about so much-I want to write about myself as a child, coming through losing a parent-but as a book for adults, or for young adults? Does that matter? I want to say something that means something to others, that rings true. But I cannot narrow my focus, not as I should.
I finally have some time, and I’m just…lost. Arms up in the air shrugging wondering how to gather all the words that hover around me, mocking me. Fuckers.