christ, another month has passed without words.
she is paper and blank screens and music without a message and now lies wanton before me, waiting beneath the crisp white sheets
(my best friend left a smut novel at my house a couple months ago.)
"write on me, ink me good," she purrs, and i want to more than anything but i just can't with this case of block. what i'm dealing with here is the mononucleosis of the wordjunkie set--a disease that seems to be self-generating, is ambiguously venereal, and afflicts only those with a passionately intimate relationship with the language and the deliberate manipulation of its parts and variations.
every writer goes through it, each experiencing it a little differently. for me, it's kind of like the words have created a dam, blocking the flow of thoughts and ideas within and without, but it feels like a much-less-embarrassing-but-just-as-frustrating form of erectile dysfunction. the snake that eats its tail is my focusing on what's keeping me from writing and general preoccupation with various forms of bullshit. it has taken its toll and as a result, my pen is flaccid.
years ago, i heard a close friend of mine tell someone about me: "he meets a girl and it takes him away from everything." it resurfaces in times like this, and as true as it may be, i know there's more to it than that.
...then again, maybe it's just too much pot.
she is paper and blank screens and music without a message and now lies wanton before me, waiting beneath the crisp white sheets
(my best friend left a smut novel at my house a couple months ago.)
"write on me, ink me good," she purrs, and i want to more than anything but i just can't with this case of block. what i'm dealing with here is the mononucleosis of the wordjunkie set--a disease that seems to be self-generating, is ambiguously venereal, and afflicts only those with a passionately intimate relationship with the language and the deliberate manipulation of its parts and variations.
every writer goes through it, each experiencing it a little differently. for me, it's kind of like the words have created a dam, blocking the flow of thoughts and ideas within and without, but it feels like a much-less-embarrassing-but-just-as-frustrating form of erectile dysfunction. the snake that eats its tail is my focusing on what's keeping me from writing and general preoccupation with various forms of bullshit. it has taken its toll and as a result, my pen is flaccid.
years ago, i heard a close friend of mine tell someone about me: "he meets a girl and it takes him away from everything." it resurfaces in times like this, and as true as it may be, i know there's more to it than that.
...then again, maybe it's just too much pot.