Summer is a drag. Especially this summer. All my friends seem to be gone. Karen is in Oxford, England; Bob is not on campus. There’s drama brewing in GPS; Chickenpinata is damn near defunct thanks to a mass exodus of my (admittedly paltry) staff. La Petite Mort is late by three weeks, tomorrow. Grumble, grumble, grumble.
And, if all that’s not bad enough, I haven’t been writing anything worth a flip. Oh, I’ve been trying–this is like the 6th time I’ve started a blog post, and have scribbles of lines here and there. But everything’s been a half-hearted effort, when I’ve tried, and most days I’m just not feeling it.
A lot of this malaise is directly related to summer itself, when my writing naturally seems to “estivate” (not hibernate–thanks, Bob), but a lot has to do with the ongoing drama in my own life which has been out of control for months. It is, perhaps, beginning to resolve itself, but I’m tired, tired, tired. The thought of actually writing any poem is just …vomitous… to me these days. It’s like it’s all too much; the world waaaaay too much with me–with my life as uncertain and enervating and heavy as it has been, I just can’t fit in the angst that struggling to find the right words brings too. I just can’t.
I can already hear Bob muttering under his breath, and telling me to grow up (or worse), and Grace (if she read this, which she doesn’t, fortunately) telling me to get off the pity pot and write something already. But it’s not that easy. “Writing through the pain” is just a BS sentiment. I know a lot of Great Writers (TM) write best when they are stressed or freaking out, but that has never worked for me. That creative wellspring just dries up, and I’m about as useful as a piece of lint. I hate feeling this way. I hate what’s going on my life right now, and I hate that I can’t control it–I just have to sit by and watch it implode.
I suppose, a creative, thoughtful person reframes negative feelings. I could, for instance, think of myself as being like the cicada, underground and resting in nymph stage, until my 17-year instar comes upon me, and I become this creative, energetic person who begins to sing (although, I promise I don’t have any timbals on my abdomen, because that would just be weird) –or in my case, write. But I don’t really want to wait 17 years, and I don’t really want to compare myself to an ugly, scary bug. Or maybe I do. At least when cicadas emerge from their burrows, they shed their skins and become brand new.
I wouldn’t mind being brand new.
I wouldn’t mind being able to find the words in poetry what I’ve just been tapdancing around in this post.
I just don’t know when that will be.
Though, actually, it will have to be soon-ish, because the August Poetry Postcard Fest is soon to gear up…