So, all week long, I feel feisty or horny, or depressed. I’m a tired huntress, or an indignant virgin, or a resentful mother. In my snappy underwear, my huntress is alert, the virgin fights for her causes, and the mother is kind and nurturing. But I cant even find the cape for my panties today.
So, yeah. I have moods. I’m moody. Bruisy purple-green moods and electric, scarlet moods. The clock ticks. The pen skips. The cockroach that plays BIG piano in my oven control panel bipps.
It’s not that I can’t string words together. It’s that I have nothing to say. I’m mute. Empty.
Having something to say doesn’t depend on words. I could say it with colors, or my body. Or pickles on foam core board. The muse has left me, for another woman. Left me high and dry, mocking my good intentions. I curse her and the flamingo she flew in on. I gave at the silent auction.
Bip. Bip. Bip.
Carcass. That’s my word of the day. Haul this big-bellied carcass around, for what? I hate a muffin top. A squidgy belly is good for babies to lie on but shit for looking good in new jeans. Or out of them. I sit in an abundance. My legs work. My mind works, except when I forget what I walked in for. I don’t know what muse this is, but she’s mean. Wants to bite heads off and draw blood. Here, have some rum cake. That’ll do it. Long, slow, death-by-diabetes, the sugar legacy.
This is nonsense. I’m just scribbling. No story. No method. This isn’t writing.
I pick up the little rubber penis (complete with ball sack) that fits over a light switch. Up, excited. Down, lights out. It would be fun if it stayed on, and up. But it falls off. It has dust on it. Needs a rinse.
I fiddle with the hardwood bracelet from Costa Rica. Ten different-colored woods never get boring. And the glow-in-the-dark piggy paperweight. But writing about this stuff isn’t writing, either. The wind blows in the trees outside. I think the class is infecting me. Gloomy and rancid thoughts swirl like the leaves in my carport.
This day would be different if I had put on my Wonder Woman Underwear this morning.
Tomorrow, I’ll do that.
So, yeah. I have moods. I’m moody. Bruisy purple-green moods and electric, scarlet moods. The clock ticks. The pen skips. The cockroach that plays BIG piano in my oven control panel bipps.
It’s not that I can’t string words together. It’s that I have nothing to say. I’m mute. Empty.
Having something to say doesn’t depend on words. I could say it with colors, or my body. Or pickles on foam core board. The muse has left me, for another woman. Left me high and dry, mocking my good intentions. I curse her and the flamingo she flew in on. I gave at the silent auction.
Bip. Bip. Bip.
Carcass. That’s my word of the day. Haul this big-bellied carcass around, for what? I hate a muffin top. A squidgy belly is good for babies to lie on but shit for looking good in new jeans. Or out of them. I sit in an abundance. My legs work. My mind works, except when I forget what I walked in for. I don’t know what muse this is, but she’s mean. Wants to bite heads off and draw blood. Here, have some rum cake. That’ll do it. Long, slow, death-by-diabetes, the sugar legacy.
This is nonsense. I’m just scribbling. No story. No method. This isn’t writing.
I pick up the little rubber penis (complete with ball sack) that fits over a light switch. Up, excited. Down, lights out. It would be fun if it stayed on, and up. But it falls off. It has dust on it. Needs a rinse.
I fiddle with the hardwood bracelet from Costa Rica. Ten different-colored woods never get boring. And the glow-in-the-dark piggy paperweight. But writing about this stuff isn’t writing, either. The wind blows in the trees outside. I think the class is infecting me. Gloomy and rancid thoughts swirl like the leaves in my carport.
This day would be different if I had put on my Wonder Woman Underwear this morning.
Tomorrow, I’ll do that.
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