Wednesday, March 21

On writing the very words that fail us... 

That dreaded rub “writer’s block,” as they say, comes, and goes. For us, it comes, and stays put. Much has been written about it, and about overcoming it. But no, it doesn’t budge. And we’re thinking, why not write about the sufferance itself.

We do have stories in the head, some waiting to be told, some forming, some timorously holding back, even though we know they’ll lead us to murky waters if we don’t heed them. Some stories date back to a conversation we listened in on a journey, in the elevator, at the supermarket, or perhaps a forbidden nook of a bookstore or library; some of lost loves; some that are closer home, or belong to us and only us; some painful memories from a distant past; some dreamy desires we stow in the depths of our hearts for an unspecified future…but where are the words when we need them? Like flurries, languidly afloat, evading our reach…and swiftly melting away when touched, with a sudden quirk of luck.

But it’s what ensues in the everyday that needs regard, if you ask us. Every single day, there are instances that move us, irk us, bring a smile to our face…some plain old uplifting gestures from friends, dear ones; a few ingenuity-lined sparks, which come from the most unexpected quarters --- of new acquaintances, old friends we’d given up on; words and actions that our little girl surprises us with --- if we look, there’s something, if we pause to listen, there’s something, or if we just take time to breathe, perhaps, something will come of it. But no, the show must go on. We go on with our repetitive routines with such an indefinable intensity and unshakeable allegiance that everything ceases to matter. Or, keeps from invading our territory that we so gratefully regard, as if our world would collapse if a smile were to be smiled or tear to be shed for the actual veracity of their stimulation. So, with the show, wearing its aggressive obverse and flaunting a gazillion banalities that shroud a nondescript, yet normal existence, going on briskly; and life, in the background, happening at its own normal pace, where is that iota of sensitiveness or just retentiveness, to tell you what or how we feel, in so many (or so little) words?

No visions softly creeping, no seeds left while we’re sleeping, not even a tinge of the real sound of silence that could stop us short, and inspire in us the notes with which to describe our race to live a non-life.