Posts tagged ‘Writer’s block’

September 2, 2013

My Mind has a Hole

I am sitting in a Starbucks about twenty minutes from my home. When I left home, I wasn’t hungry. After a long morning at church, I had much to think upon and write about; my mind  churned as my tires turned. And then, half way to Starbucks, the pangs of hunger laid their hands upon my stomach; why had they not appeared before I left home? Before I left the residence of food I had already paid for?

The need to be satiated drove me to make a pit stop before Starbucks. But my mind continued to churn over the morning’s significance as my teeth gnoshed on green noodles. When I arrived at Starbucks, I stood patiently as the busy baristas prepared my simple coffee, and waited for my computer to turn on and connect and load. But then I found my churning mind had leaked everything I had pondered; there was residue caked to the walls, but the meat I had previously gnawed upon, tasted and moved about my mouth with my tongue, was gone. Like the keys that slipped through the hole in your pocket; like the wallet nested in yesterday’s pocket when you find yourself at the restaurant.

February 19, 2013

Saturday’s Missed Opportunity

The roommates were gone, the house was all mine; the stars were so aligned. All the space I could need to work. And contained therein all the work that could fill my soul.

One was with his girlfriend’s family.

One was on a business trip to somewhere not here.

One was on a double date to Munster, Indiana.

There was my room to be cleaned. Laundry to be sorted, washed, dried, and folded; papers to be surveyed and filed; sheets to be changed on a bed yet to be made; order to be made of chaos.

There were errands to be run. Suits to be dry cleaned; treadmills to be avoided in lieu of stationary bikes and other machinery inspired by medieval torture chambers; groceries to be purchased.

There were kitchen counters to be wiped; dishes to be scoured, dried, and sorted; a refrigerator to be purged of forgotten leftovers.

There were roommate chores that could have been done with a quiet mind. Bathrooms to be cleaned, tables to be wiped; floors to be swept and mopped; leaves to be raked; stairs to be vacuumed.

There were books to be read. The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle; Of the Imitation of Christ; The Book of Common Prayer; The Bible; The Garbage Eater.

There were words to be typed or scrawled. There were self-indulgent letters to be written; wayward stories to be further mislead; melodramatic and rhythmically awkward lyrics to be composed.

But there was one bright star missing: mine. Never the astrologer, I missed the signs, my cue. I slept late. I watched Psych. I played Assassin’s Creed. With the whole house to myself, I stayed on the couch.

October 21, 2012

Hitting the Block

A cool trumpet and some light brush strokes on the ride caress the molten evening sky. An empty square on the calendar is all he wanted, a meat grinder to cut up his brain into bite size pieces. No, that’s not quite it. He just needs the letters cut from magazines to collude with him for once and then they can take the back end excretions from the meat grinder for the sprouting mosaic. God forbid it turns malignant. But for now the calligraphy has tied itself in knots like an octopus.

There is that bright horn. It doesn’t blaze a path in the night, that is too unfocused, and a laser’s swathes are not broad enough. You’d tack it down for dissection but it has left the room, giving way a modestly dressed but voluptuous bass shaking it for the persistent percussionist. Insistent is more like it. And just when you think they are about to go back to his room, the horn saunters back, securing every eye. Let’s just be friends, the percussionist insists, because I can’t choose just one of you.