(I apologize in advance for this whole rambling mess. Those who have stared down writer’s block for extended time periods – in my case, months on end – will understand my frustrations, even if my words themselves make no sense.)
Writer’s block is being a bitch to me. I don’t know why. What did I ever do to it? Stupid block. All I want to do is write, to pour my soul out on paper, to open a vein right abov my hear t and good god why can I not type today? This is killing me, illling the sould that I want to deprive myself of and give to the reading masses. Listen to me. My god-awful stream of consciousness pouring through a hole in the dyke and there my timer just went off and I have to go finish making food and relieve myself f of the crippling anxiety of this prose…
I return, my coffee still warming on the pot, my earbuds in, a half-bottle of red winelooking at me temptingly from the top of my fridge. I fell a failure. Feel. Feel like. I feel like a failure. This keyboard sucks ass beyond all rational belief. It slows downt the very process of my thought. It hath become my scapegoat, and verily shall I stone it.
On my balcony I sit, watching the rain. The rain is rare in Phoenix, Arizona.
Shit. It’s already gone. Here comes the sun. Cue the Beatles.
The music in my head, a fantasy mixfrom movies and video games for nerds like me. Little in the way of lyrics, lots in the way of epicness, which should help me focus. Nothing helps me focus. I need drugs. I don’t belive in drugs. Not that I believe drugs don’t exist, I just… you know hwat I mean.
See how lousy my typing has become? How the hell did James Joyce ever do it?
My mind moves to fast. Too. Too fast. I become multituds, multitudesl, fuck me and my fucking keyboard it kills me my scapegoat I’ll chuck the whole laptope over the side and see who’s laughting then, right???
Whare was I…
Before me stands a man, a soldier from the looks of him, who came through many fights, but lost at love. Just cribbed the grateful Dead. So what? Sue me. (please don’t. I’m poor.) I’m working hard over here. Working to get into flow. To feel the words come withouth my conscious awareness, withoiuty my concisous interference in their rightful order. I used the word conscious twice in one sentence, but one time I misspelled it, so that makes it okay.
This man has a sword, and he seeks to kill me. Why does he seek to kill me? He has his reasons. I am awful, depraved, a spiteful man, I think my liver’s diseased. And I just cribbed Dostoevsky. All these provide the man ample justification to slit my throat, scalp me, and leave my remains for the crows. He won’t do it, though. He’s a coward, and I am stronger than he. I can see it in hiseyes.
The crows mount on my lawn, seeking carrion, but finding only worms. (are there worms in Phoenix? I haven’t checked.) I know there are scorpions, though I haven’t seen one of those yet, knock on wodd and pray to Zeus.
Sorry, Odin. Pray to Odin, the battle-god, of course. He’s the one inspiring the man before me, the golden-haired pretty-boy warrior with his shining spear, intent on my blood. What is my blood worth? Not more than the blood of any poet. Less, even, for I am no poet. Still, I may die like one.
I wrote a haiku once. It went like this:
This is a haiku
But I know not what to write
I am no poet
I wrote that for English class in 7th grade. It earned me an A. I can’t say I worked too hard on it. Yet I suppose it’s creative, in its own right. And it follows the rules. Probably won’t translate properly to Japanese, though.
I speak a little japanexe. Very little. Nihongo, as it’s said. Watashiwa nihongoga sukoshi hanashimasu. I probably misspelled all of that, and I’m sure my grammar’s terrible, but you get the gist. And yes, I wrote it in latin letters – romanji, as they call it – since I can’t read or write the language for shit. It could be argued that I can’t speak or understand it for shit, either, but I have my phrases, and I’m sticking to them.
Flute music now. I’m growing bored of my ramblings. I want to tell a story, a real story, a vital, vibrant, funny, living tale of love and loss and properly spelled without too many run-on stentences and for christs sake I’m tiered of pressing fucking backspace!
Did you ever have one of those days?
Bring it, writer’s block. If I can’t beat you, I’ll use you. Make you my bitch, see how you like being on the receiving end for once. We’ll see who has the last laugh.
Resistance points the way. Fuck off, block-man, sissy-boy with your spear and your golden hair. Its time to upend all of it, sweep away the mess, get off of this quasi-Joycean kick and start writing something that makes sense.
Ignore everything up ‘til now. It’s all noise and shit and wretched contentment.
Closing with Nietzsche. Nice.