honeydunce

I feel like I’ve been pressing my hands hard against a massive block these days, like I’m trying to shove whatever is between me and the words out of the way. Trying to size up the heaviness, wondering if I can shoulder it aside or find something sharp and gut the middle. Here is my belt full of spoons to dig it out. I sit down with all purpose to write, all senses sharp–there’s even new music to get my fingers twitching. The worst kind of block is the one that comes right when you’re ready to damn near explode. I have so much to say, and so much on my mind. Maybe I’m just stuck on where to begin. Maybe this is a beginning of sorts.

I turn twenty-eight three weeks from today, and this is the first upcoming birthday that I’m nervous about, and kind of scared of. It doesn’t really make sense. As Joel said, on some calendars I could be 800-and-something, and on others maybe I’m just turning four. But here, on this one, it’s 28. It isn’t the number, but the span of time. It isn’t the span of time, but the stacks of memories, the moments, the minutes. All the m’s. I find myself staring a the notebooks, the boxes full of papers, the files–all of these pages with all of these words, and all of them meant something, mean something, might someday. Every year I think about letting it all go. The one thing holding me back is the imagined absence, and what it might do to me(can disposal of creation devastate? I’m convinced). Right now, I might deal better with the empty space. I keep it around like evidence and I couldn’t tell you what case I’m trying to solve. I daydream about typing them all, printing it out, archiving it right. There just isn’t time for it. Part of me wonders: wasn’t writing, the action of, ultimately releasing it? So it’s out there…then do I need to hang on to the proof?

Whenever I feel a block coming on, or I feel like I’m in the midst of one, I usually take that as a sign for me to ease up and focus on the living part a little bit more. Focus on the observations and the interactions, the dialogue. Actions. Maybe it isn’t something I should cut through. Knowing all that, the truth is this: when I don’t write, when I cannot write, I feel limbless. Like I stumbled over a brand new color, or smell or sound, and I cannot bring myself to name it. Like my skin will cave in if someone touches me, or that I might explode if I walk around a certain corner too quickly.

Patience and staying present. These two things will get me through it.