it's not anybody's fault.

I've reached my absolute breaking point.  I'm finished.  Kaput.  Finis.  I cannot stand one more ounce, not even 1/2 an ounce, not even an infinitesimal quantity, of pressure. 

(And as I type I listen, observant, to the fan in this laptop racing to cool the motherfucking harddrive off but it will lose, it always does, and I think, yes, that's what I mean.  Pressure.  I can cool off no more than this harddrive.  My mental harddrive is vying for first place this time, though, oh laptop, so suck on that.  'Cause you surely care.  You must care.  You have to.  It's your job.  *Someone* has to.  I cannot be bothered to do so; I'm much too busy being consumed utterly by -- all the STUFF. 

If this post isn't completed, it's your fucking fault, you wretched cunt of a laptop.  Also, if I use some blunt object with which to do in the dog with all of her useless piles of hair, that's your fault, too.)

*nods grimly, eyeing laptop's blue, unblinking power-button-eye in a stare-down*

I was vacuuming at a fevered pace, earlier this evening, while Caleb and Jack brushed the dog downstairs and I conjured even more fevered visions of the dog unfastidiously gracing someone else's, *anyone else's* suddenly hair-festooned home, and I was thinking.  Yes, I was.  I was thinking about all of it.  About how much I long to write, and about how trapped I feel by it, and how much I hate that I overuse "that" in almost every thing I've ever scratched onto a notepad or post-it or in the back of the only thing in my bag that could be written upon, like a book or a magazine or informational pamphlet, and I was trying to think of how to combat this horrid everest of writer's block that has encapsulated my soul, which kind of reminds me of souls bottled and sold in little capsules, yellow-and-red with a tiny stamp on the side that says, "property of so-and-so."  And then I remembered how, on my drive home from work, I was still trying to unravel that very business, and then I remembered, in a tumbly way, all of the days and moments when I've struggled to understand why I cannot write, lately.  And I realize it's because I am no good at the writing-for-work.  The writing-for-pay.  Bedeviled by the very notion of dancing with the devil, the devilish dance, the feverish dance, when one is creating something for reasons not true, not real, not rooted in earnest, bloody afterbirth, with its umbilical cord still spitting blood, the forked tail but a myth to this true, true blue-veined being, its eyes boring into my soul, the greatest drug known to womankind, that out-of-body experience when one locks eyes with one's own creation for the first time, and recognizes - truth.  The embodiment of another soul. 

(Sure, you might attempt to discern whether I'm foggily complaining about my own physical creation of a human, the one who currently bedevils my every thought, my every breath, whether he's growing into my Shelley-esque Frankenstein, and, hell, he kind of is, but only because our children *must* torture us, and once again I'm staggered that Mary Shelley, a girl of NINETEEN, had such a wisdom so as to see that truth so keenly, JESUS GOD AND SWEET POTATOES, she fucking knew -- sometimes I kind of think she knew everything.  Sometimes I wonder if Mary Shelley was god.)

*ahem*

Oh, this is good, it's so rambly and incoherent absolutely no one will bother with it.  It is my intention to lose 3/4s of my audience within the first few paragraphs, if not sentences, so that I can be assured to either be pleasantly alone by the finish, or have one or two blithe, merry, drunk-as-fuck companions with whom I may miserably commiserate, and bless the fucking lord out of any of you who might be that lot. 

Can you believe I'm not even *remotely* tipsy, writing this fucked-up nonsense?

Did I mention, I wanted to write a real story, tonight?  But who fucking has time for that drawn-out extension of wool-gathering?  Not I, no.  I merely have time to bore the piss out of any/everyone including myself with this stream of nothing.

I'm bogged down again by the cools.  The ones who toss these incredible lyrics off with seemingly a flick of their delicate-yet-bold-yet-bad-assed-yet-gourmand wristeses.

I'm suddenly feeling a bit poety.

I crave a good writing session, a lengthy hour or more with my piano, an hour of yoga.  I crave a good run, one of at least a few miles, if not several.  I savor like rose petals made of gossamer the thought of light and air and space and time to shushingly silently slink. 

I will say this: the dog sucks.  But the vacuuming I was forced to do because of her hirsute ass?  Was almost as good as a nice, quiet slink through the woods. 

I guess I owe the bitch a thank you.

*But don't you tell her I said that.  It'll just go to her head.*

Comments

[Lawyer Mama]

Now I made it all the way through and I'm stone cold sober. I love it when you rant and rave. It's pure Debbiness in its rarest, essential form.

[cynematic]

Count me as one of your drunk-as-fuck companions then. (MOMos before bros, that goes without saying.)

Mary Shelley girl bride of genius, WAS a genius who had her youth, childlessness, and energy as the wind beneath her wings.

I am thinking Erma Bombeck may be all I can aspire to.

That, and a few haikus here and there. (What you said while vacuuming is exactly why I write haiku. Not cuz I think I'm a poet, but the limits and brevity of the form appeal to me. I can usually puzzle one out in 5 minutes or so.)

xxoo

[jaelithe]

And now you know why I struggle to write at my personal blog half the time. I force lovely mechanical monsters to spring from my brow on a regular basis, but they're not The Real Thing, Word Made Flesh, etc.

In fact I was just talking, seriously just as in minutes ago, to my husband about how I really, really like my paid work, a lot, and I'm good at my paid work and I like getting paid and money and business success are good, but writing the sorts of things I currently write for pay impairs my ability to Write with a capital W (as in, Write novels, Write poetry, Write badass political commentary, etc.).

And he, being a very analytical, practical, non-artist type of person, was all like, "What?"

So I'm glad you understand it.

Anyway it will get easier for you to balance, I think.

(And this post was gorgeous. Souls in labeled bottles? I nearly died of awesome.)

[Backpacking Dad]

Am sober.

Hi!

What's a blog?

[Sarcomical]

i think i just fell in love with you.

in a hetero, non-stalker way.

and i think you just voiced the frustration of a surprising mass of those from our generation...

[Major Bedhead]

I may not always get it (although I really got this one) but I'm still here. Drunk or sober or hungover all to fuck.

[Mary]

Sober here, but Jayzus, this blew my hair back from my forehead. Brilliant.

[apathy lounge]

I'm jealous of your facility with words. Hatefully, horribly, hopelessly jealous. There. Satisfied?

[Shutter Bitch]

If I had in my whole body the amount of writing awesome you have in your typing fingers, or even just one finger, I'd be all set.

"I savor like rose petals made of gossamer the thought of light and air and space and time to shushingly silently slink."

I only wish I could write that beautifully. But I understand the nemesis that is necessity, and that it's not always the words or the desire, but the mind-fuck that can go with all the essences of writing. I do have to say that when you let it out, let it ramble on, it moves me in ways few published works do anymore.

You move me. Drunk or sober, I am moved by you. Always.

[c lo]

basically, what apathy lounge said.

[kady]

Hey babe, you can still land a plane in my Hudson anytime you want.

I have no idea what that means.

[flutter]

how about you are the most stylish, generous, beautiful person ever?

how about THAT?

[Anissa@hope4peyton]

Truth of the matter is, while I may have endless things to write, I will probably never do it with as much style and verve as you do a single post about not having shit to write about...or the drive to do it...so NAH! *sticks out tongue*

Don't doubt yourself, your rambles are meaningful...because they expose a new side of you.

[Scott]

I can relate--I recently began blogging, myself! I have found that there's no "right" time to post, that I can choose whether or not to write, depending on my mood. The guilt I feel in "not writing/posting often enough" is invalid. I am not obligated to write anything at all, anytime!

And another thing I've realized: If I expect to post something,even plan it all out, then decide not to bother--my readers won't know! They don't know my plans, in the first place, so they don't expect anything, as I do!

So take it easy on yourself--it is your prerogative not to write, if you don't feel like it, just as it is your prerogative to write, if you do! Because it's your blog! Peace!

[Kerri Anne]

Why do we not meet at funky eclectic coffee shops every once in a few weekends and rant and rave and write and write and write and talk about how AMAZING Mary Shelley is? Because we should.

(And you know you can call me anytime, truly.)

[Ruth Dynamite]

It's Time, that wily beast. Time. Forced expression never works.

But this? You? Poetry.

[qt]

If its any consolation, I'm blocked, too - ;)

[Lotta]

You are forcing me to leave this post here cause you close comments on the last one lady!

The only thing you should self examine from regarding your idiot friend is how not to attract more idiot friends.

I'm worried about you though. What happened with the meds my friend? Get thee to in inpatient facility if you need to. No shame in taking care of yourself honey.

Love you!
Lotta