Gotta get back on the horse

What the hell is wrong with me, that's what I'd like to know.

I used to relish stealing a few moments and write about the thoughts, inspirations and urges that occurred to me throughout the day. For this whole year, I can't be bothered to hock up so much as one passionate, thoughtful or funny contemplation? Oh, the shame.

It was one of my favorite things to do: sit down, pour out and sift through the little notes in my head. It's a little embarrassing, but I love reading my own writing, at least when it's any good. It's the literary form of loving the sound of your own voice. It was sloppily (if lovingly) proofread and occasionally pretentious, but it was mine and I really dug it. My brother liked it, too.

Now? The well has gone dry. The Muse is silent. Shit! I used to think I knew what to do when the creative cupboard was bare:

I'd take in something that inspired me, like music, television, current events. Something would always rise to the surface. Lately, I take in all the entertainment I can process, and... zero.

Or, I could sit down and write something, anything. Get the mental motor running and see where it takes me. I am ashamed that the only place it takes me these days is right here: moping aloud about my inability to do something besides mope aloud, and waiting for that old feeling to recur. It's fucking sad.

Is there nothing worth writing about? Of course that's not the case. I've got a son whose vocabulary is quickly outstripping his mother's and approaching his father's; I've got a daughter whose right to vote and ability to procreate had a foot race, and voting won, but not by fucking much; I've got a job whose many dynamics deny those of what other people call the real world; I've got a good friend who always has something stuck in his nose hair or the corners of his mouth. The shit is out there, and I'm... just blind to it. How can this be??

So, I dunno. I'm sad about it. My madness has abated, possibly even died outright. I feel like I've lost a limb, and I don't even have the ghostly itches and pains that sometimes accompany such a loss. It's just numb. All I'm left with is a funk, a foggy void that would pull something into it if there was anything to draw in.

I am so sick of writing about how I have nothing to say. It's paradoxical and stupid and depressing. I wish I could blame it on too much drink, not enough sleep, too much work, not enough stress, but the fact is that these have all fluctuated enormously in recent months, and none of the extremes have brought me the raw materials or the fire that I crave.

Ech, Jesus, am I becoming normal? For all the troubles I've ever had, that taught me to love and appreciate humor (and its children: sarcasm and irony and mirth and glee and joy and playfulness) in a way that only someone whose life has been saved by it can, I never wished that Pinocchio would become a real boy. I've never wanted to trade all the woes as a square peg in this world for a smooth, comfortable fit into a round hole. And now I seem to have it forced upon me. If I was on medications, I'd go off of them. I'd rather suffer and laugh at life's irritants than be free of them. Horrible, horrible freedom.

But fuck it, I'm not quitting yet. Where there's life, there's hope, right? (Right...??)

I've got all the tools I could possibly ask for to broadcast my stupid opinions and desires all across the planet. While it's unfortunate that I currently have nothing to say, I'm going to keep the light on so that that fucking bitch Muse can find her way back when she gets done farting around at whatever she's doing, and starts feeding me the spark of life that I miss so profoundly. I'm going to keep my mind open and write stupid shit like the 571 words above, and putting it where anyone can see it and almost no one will and I don't blame them.

Because I'm not about to stand around barking and braying mindlessly like so many of the other zoo animals that harp about Dancing with the Stars and Sarah Palin like they really matter; because if nothing else, if I still have the sense to realize there's something missing, then I haven't faded into the herd completely and I'm not going there without a fucking struggle. A loud, profane, kicking-like-a-little-girl struggle.

So there. Nyah!