I'm not sure why I've stopped writing my blog. At first sign of the slow-down, I raided my own past and stole posts from less bloggy (and more social) spaces, migrating them slowly over to this, "the blog" that was to be my means of expression. The space that was to serve as the anonymous locus of my meandering mind, the poetic wrecks of my love life unfurling, the beginning of my fictionalized autobiography, even. I've let it go silent.
It's all become like some cold, dried out (but still clammy) slop of spaghetti sitting on the dinner plate hours after dinner is over. And there's no mommy hovering nearby, pointedly ignoring me while she does the dishes (or at least does something useful, you can hear by the bustling sound she makes) while I sit there and stare down the inevitable mass. Staring it down, maybe, but not really seeing it, for I'm lost in my own thoughts and only vaguely aware of the hard wood of the chair poking awkward pressure onto my then-scrawny butt bones.
There is a general protest that I haven't listened to, rising in my blood. There is a childish refusal that I know to be relentlessly misguided. As I sit here now, before my computer, typing nothing on this other project I should be creating, I hear a vehement "je m'accuse" made of silence. It's as if someone put duct tape across the mouth of my little typing soul, and I sit and observe the scene hours later. She's so blase about it that she looks more like a jaded emo erstwhile dominatrix taking a break from plying the trade than a wronged victim of some nefarious plot. There is no plot. Not even of my own making. This is what I refuse to face.
When will I become writing again? Even Dora had a plot. She wrote her ending beautifully; so what if Freud had the last written word.
It's all become like some cold, dried out (but still clammy) slop of spaghetti sitting on the dinner plate hours after dinner is over. And there's no mommy hovering nearby, pointedly ignoring me while she does the dishes (or at least does something useful, you can hear by the bustling sound she makes) while I sit there and stare down the inevitable mass. Staring it down, maybe, but not really seeing it, for I'm lost in my own thoughts and only vaguely aware of the hard wood of the chair poking awkward pressure onto my then-scrawny butt bones.
There is a general protest that I haven't listened to, rising in my blood. There is a childish refusal that I know to be relentlessly misguided. As I sit here now, before my computer, typing nothing on this other project I should be creating, I hear a vehement "je m'accuse" made of silence. It's as if someone put duct tape across the mouth of my little typing soul, and I sit and observe the scene hours later. She's so blase about it that she looks more like a jaded emo erstwhile dominatrix taking a break from plying the trade than a wronged victim of some nefarious plot. There is no plot. Not even of my own making. This is what I refuse to face.
When will I become writing again? Even Dora had a plot. She wrote her ending beautifully; so what if Freud had the last written word.
