I am a writer and lately, I cannot write.
My brain is stuck and all I can get out are oddities.
I really do not want to blame my psychiatric diagnoses. I just want to keep writing. I do not trust the sequential deliverance of my work. I do not trust that it will fit with my current projects. I do not trust myself. I feelt broken.
But, I do not believe in not writing.
I will write here because writing here feels dutiful and open and just kind of healthy.
Since I feel stuck, I am literally now picking myself up and going places.
I am getting back to my work by taking my notebook outside and recording whatever I can. From those notes, come these pieces…poems, maybe. Offerings, truly.
I am translating my physical life into authorial experiences.
If you go anywhere at all while reading, please comment, please let me know.
I believe writing can improve the world by positively advancing readers towards new experiences. This is my practice. This is my work. I just want to return to it and so: Hopefully you go somewhere.
Come back every day. There will be a series.
And, if you are a writer and you are also stuck, maybe start by listening, writing down what you listen, writing down what you hear…
Stop looking at my bag, he says, stop looking at my bag
Grey eyes, grey rimmed yellow lenses he says, stop looking, stop looking at my bag, stop it
She recently visited a candy store, gourmet, occasional
The bright blue bag reminds her of topically appropriate jewellery
And her American family
And stupid things
Like terrorist interventions and monuments and faith
She is jealous
Corrupting her jealousy
By looking at his bag, looking away when he demands, looking back
At cheap plastic red and yellow
Like the one her mother used kept in the trunk
For the blue and green blanket
With the crumbs from that time when
And she never told
Stop. Stop looking at my bag.
Red benches support old people and anyone with a very official lack of character
They will be velvet soon
They will be moving
Like the shopping cart in her living room
Next to the mattress
Where her mother died
She keeps condolences
She keeps old checkers pieces
She keeps sleeping
On a collection of starter kits
I wish I was bigger than this
I wish I was too big
I wish I was growing
I wish I was painting the wall green
Like her best friend
Who worked for Ralph Lauren
Who hated Johnny Cash for being sad
Those who use Fountain Pens, he tells me, never go back, he says, they have trouble going back, fountain pens are like that
Stop looking at my bag
Stop looking at my bag
Yes, yes, yes, yes
as if amazing people were just here
As if that woman who has been sitting still for twenty minutes was just amazing, was just here
Are you writing poetry, he says, are you writing poetry
No no no I am not, are you reading poetry
No no. No no.
Blue scarves tuck in, Green scarves cover her hair, her smile is in between the scarves
For some kind of occasion, some kind of occasional mouth
He reads from a test sheet, flipping it over, flipping it over
On all sides
I fixate on the part of me that is successful at not eating
At the candy, occasional, bagged,
At the anxieties overwhelming the grey floor
Staring downward, we pool
These are theirs, where are mine
Talked about by the little girl
Candy mom, candy
Jesus Christ, she says, Jesus Christ and I think
He must be here
He must be
Grey beard, black hat
He listens from small pieces
Avoiding the sounds
And I think
Why do I keep waiting for you to be
Some kind of obscure solution
Stop look at my bag ok
Cowboy boots and a distinguished stare at the phone
With the many things
He has already seen
I wish you some kind of love
I wish love
For some kind of you
Kind of like your tense offers
Once in a while
Once on occasion