I can’t. I just can’t write right now. I would like to, but the idea of opening up something I’ve been working on, rereading the most recent progress and then having to start thinking of new shit is just – oppressive, to say the least. I know it’s just a mental block, but the truth is, I don’t feel like it right now; and that’s okay too.
It’s okay to be non-productive; just relax, drink some tea, get high, listen to something… whatever.
But, sometimes, there’s this deep antagonism within me that pulls me apart and won’t let me relax or create, and it can be troubling.
I sometimes feel like all presence is evaporating, just retreating from the foreground in some vaguely nondescript manner; and it is.
A few weeks back I saw this butterfly fluttering around outside my window, 5 stories up above the busy street, of my apartment in San Francisco’s Polk Gulch, and this was an unusual thing to see. In fact, I rarely see butterflies in these more dense parts of the city – a few blocks this way or that I’ll see them in gardens and near flower pots, but never here before. It was alone. I thought maybe it was lost; I thought I was lost too.
That was 210 words; pretty good so far.
Today, as I waited for the 27 bus to take me home I saw this guy with long, scraggly, dark hair, red jacket, underneath which he was wearing a hospital gown, pretty dirty by now, probably from a night or two ago, maybe this morning. His face red and dirty, and fixed in an unrepentant stare of pure insanity, he didn’t notice me because he was busy yelling something to himself that can’t be understood; not in this time; not in this space.
