I’m blocked. Completely stuck. I’ve been trying to take in as much mental fiber as I can, but to no avail. Once again, I find myself thinking about taking a radical new approach to writing. Perhaps cutting off the first two digits of my hands will inspire my writing muse. I imagine that pounding the keyboard with bloody little stumps will take my writing to a whole new level. Hell, the typos alone will create a sort of free form writing that hasn’t been seen since Finnegans Wake. I may be jumping the gun a little by comparing myself to Joyce, but I’m pretty sure that I can start a whole new trend here.
I have the added stress of the school semester starting again, along with the side bonus of inadvertently training for my back up career as a demolition derby expert, thanks to the lack of parking on my campus. I knew things were getting a little too peaceful there for a sec. I can almost hear my premature grey hairs scream their rallying cry.
My Circus by the Water has had a wet, grey week. Days of sunless gloom, which caused me further agitation. Now that the sun is starting to show its head again, I can laugh a little bit at my anger towards something so far outside of my control, like the weather. It's quite a testament to the intensity of my need to control. Someday I'll learn that yelling, "Clouds, do my damn bidding!" and "You're really pissing me off, Rain!" is quite pointless and will do nothing other than garner many a strange look from innocent bystanders. It's just another reason to laugh at myself, I suppose. Still, it was a mighty funk, the likes of which I haven't seen in quite awhile.
I decided to fix that. I was going to make myself better, right friggin' now. I was going to gather my entire arsenal of what makes me Awesome and write an entire blog post about it. The stuff that's my thing, my SWAGGER. The bits that are unique to me and give me that little extra something. It's like that special dress or pair of pants that when you put them on, you go, "Oh yeeeeaaaahh....". I began to compile a list. Fifteen minutes later, my college-ruled paper was still blank and I found myself incapable of doing nothing more than drum my fingers on the table while demanding that my brain spit out the secrets of my brand of coolness, because dammit, everyone has one. Holy Spumoni, I couldn't think of a damn thing. What the hell do I do for fun, anyway? Why can't I write anything? It was like having someone ask you what your favorite movie is; you can't help but draw a blank. After struggling for a good half hour, this is what I came up with:
Stuff Kaleena Digs:
-Having incredibly large hair, or what I like to call "Who Does That Bitch Think She Is?" hair.
-Listening to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and pretending that I can kitten-moan just like Karen O.
-Dressing up as a fictional persona on a daily basis.
That's it. This was a whole new level of lame for me. "Impossible", I say to myself, "how can I only come up with three things?" Wringing my brain like a sponge was doing me no good. I was throwing myself against the walls, trying my damnedest to write, begging the gods to please, PLEASE give me something to write about.
Nothing happened. Actually, I take that back. I got busy, life became lively. I had homework, work, friend stuff, dance stuff, art stuff; I was just unable to write. I was stuck, completely rooted in one spot. A statue frantically contemplating her next move. There was a time that I would have been angry about that. Angry at myself for not making myself do it. Now I'm beginning to alter my perceptions a bit, like a pair of rabbit ears on an old school television. The reception is coming in differently; instead of making a work of art (because every statement that holds up our truth is ultimately art) based out of anxiety and fear, it's okay to sit back and allow the opportunity to open up to you, rather than violently force yourself to move. I needed to oil myself up, like Dorothy's Tin Man. I needed to let my joints work themselves out before I try to go at a full run, thus causing myself to land squarely on my face.
What's really surprising is that this is far more efficient. By not forcing my limbs to the breaking point, I find that the words flow much easier if I just allow them to. Maybe, just maybe it's better to just sit and wait and just let things happen in their own good time. My control freak mind is still warily eyeing this thought. This same mind that thinks it can control the weather is still quite unwilling to believe that it's okay to allow things to happen. When my tin body begins to creak, I must stop and tend to it properly. Flooding myself with demands only hurts me and my poor body in the end.
This is yet another thing to place into the wheelbarrow that I cart along beside me on my trek through this strange land. Something for me to take out and examine when I need it again because like most new skills, it must be studied and practiced for many years before any sort of mastery is attained, if mastery is even at all possible. That's for Future Me though. The Present Me is just going to keep it simple by oiling the wheels and keeping one slightly rusted foot in front of the other.