Negligence can leave one remorseful, though the bitch was never invited.
I have abandoned my writing this past month. Well, that’s not entirely true. I have been writing. It’s just that it’s all a flaming pile of shit. Hence, why I see it as a month of absolute deterioration in my routine. Each word I utter, each sentence I create are reflections of desperation and a dearth of passion. It’s like the stories from Dick and Jane, “Look, said Dick. See it go. See it go up. Jane said, Oh look! See it go. See it go up. Up, up, said Sally. Go up, up, up.” I mean c’mon! Those sentences are complete and arrant stupidity. So where is inspiration? I expected her to remain loyal. (I’m too optimistic for my own good) But!- And I ask. Who can write without inspiration? And come to think of it, do I only write when I’m inspired? Ok. So I need to give in to introspection. Anyway, where was I? Ah yes. I have lost my flow darn it! I should start reciting incantations to save myself! And I know what you’re thinking. It can’t be that bad right? Oh it is. And I’m not talking second class either. That would still be a-ok in my standards of crappy writing days. No. My writing has become like India’s Bhangis, the lowest of the Untouchable castes. – And let’s not kid ourselves here. This is not progress. I am just at the point where even if it is crap, to hell with it. I’m writing and posting. I will admit there have been some distractions, and nothing noteworthy either. Well that’s not entirely true either. I’m in the process of a personal transformation. A big one! One of those that challenge paradigms and alter them completely. However, I still resent myself for it. For being Authorial incapacitated. –And I make the attempt. I sit on my bed with my laptop and block out the fucking noise that resides right outside my window. I hear taxis honking their horns, MTA buses screeching their tires as they come to a stop, the homeless man with a plastic cup in his hand, who stands right in front of Starbucks and sings for several hours his one word song. What’s the word? I could not tell you for the life of me. But if you ever do hear him, please tell me. He may just be saying the word scratch, but there is undoubtedly intense passion in his voice. “Scraaaaaaaaaatch! Scuuuuuu-araaaaaaaatch!” Was that necessary? And then there’s the construction work going on across the street, in front of the ConEdison building, as the men in their bright yellow uniforms begin their drilling with no consideration to the quiet I need. With that being said, the daily hullabaloo on 3rd Avenue has never really impeded me from writing. I’m not encumbered by personal baggage. If only I can summon my thoughts! Let’s face it. When I want to say something, I will and I’ll lose myself in the process as well, blocking out everyone and everything. The sound of my phone is always off and my fingers are delicately placed on my keyboard while I pound each letter as I become more indignant. So in the middle of this juvenile rant, all I’m able to conjure is this: Muddled Thoughts
I had a dream that I was in Miami. (Let me rephrase that. That’s a nightmare.)
Don’t forget to omit the honey. It’s a bit sour, but I’ll survive.
Let me see. What time is it? 9:24am. I should write until 12pm. Then go to Yoga and run after that.
Should I make the Kale smoothie before?
I need to buy garlic and green chili. I don’t need the green chili until next week. I’ll just by the garlic.
I want an apron from Anthropologie. I don’t care if that sounds archaic.
I have to walk to Lexington. Seems like it’s a nice day. I should enjoy the walk.
Need to build the food processor today before I cook. Where’s the manual? I loathe reading manuals. I’ll try without the manual first.
My best friend is pregnant with her first child. I need to buy her a gift. Should I buy what I found on Etsy? I don’t think she’ll like it.
My brother said he’d call at 4pm today after work to catch up. Should I text him to confirm?
My sister hasn’t responded to my text. She’s probably in class. It’s not important anyway.
Abby leaves on Friday. I should write her the e-mail before she leaves.
I need to buy the frame for my great-grandmother’s picture. She was so beautiful. I see so much of my mother in her.
The floors are shining! So happy the cleaning woman came yesterday.
I should go down and give the homeless man some money.
I’m getting hungry. Or am I? Need to learn not to confuse emotional hunger for being actually hungry.
I should call the general practitioner today and ask if they can test me on Candida. I hope they can.
How is the baby doing?
So many idiots in NYU Hospital’s billing department.
Why can’t I write? Where’s my story? Am I lost?
This is bullshit.