being my anything written

in

The empty continues and I've returned to this, especially today:

"The word block suggests that you are constipated or stuck when the truth is that you're empty... (but) if you accept the reality that you have been given – that you are not in a productive creative period – you free yourself to begin filling up again."

Lamott then adds, "I encourage my students at times like these to get one page of anything written, three hundred words of memories or dreams or stream of consciousness on how much they hate writing... ": these morning pieces are, as they have always been (I see now) in their way – some with more urgency than others – my anythings written.

Glimmer of hope, perhaps? I'll take what I can get.

Also: might have stumbled into something resembling if not acceptance then at least resignation – what's the difference between the two, I once asked my therapist; (shrug guy emoji), he replied): I don't necessarily feel better about it or less terrified (oh, those things I attach to my ability to put words to page) but I'm seeing the empty, dry well for what it is: an empty well.

That said, the question remains, as it long has, of how to fill the dried well back up. What brings me joy, a friend asked: my Switch, for one; the other, I realize now, is entering that period of, if not flow, then that time when the thing you've agonized over reveals the simplicity of its required realization (simple ≠ easy).

You may consider anything to have been written.

phantoms of swallowed sand

in

Week ends/begins as it ended/began, the brick wall ctd: simultaneous shock, resignation, and pervasive weariness over total stalling out on all creative fronts: neck deep (at least for the last few days) in that feared state which Isabel Allende likens to "swallowing sand," though my only point of reference is the "eat a spoonful of cinnamon" test/dare/internet thing from a decade or so back because I did it and have an experiential knowledge from days young and stupid.

Maybe I'm simply worn out from trying to break through again, from pounding a little harder against that diamond brick wall from Capaldi's best episode of DOCTOR WHO, my hands bleeding, my brain on something that passes barely for autopilot.

Rewatched, for the umpteenth time – though my first in probably 20 years (and K's first time – and her first silent film) – the 1925 Lon Chaney / Mary Philbin PHANTOM OF THE OPERA and, of all the times I've seen it, I think this may have been the first time I've seen it with the technicolor Red Death sequence; planning to pick through some of the extras – especially the bits from the 1930 sound version – that Kino's latest beautful Blu version gifted.

Unrelated though no less important: I am now in possession of a high-powered electric leafblower: beware, zombie-leaf horde, for I will now vanquish you without melting an icecap.

impromptu / veer

in

A call from a great friend lent a much-needed comfort to my present consternations; thanks JL.

Following a rousing moment of creative inspiration / result of perspiration at the conclusion of the workday with MainFictionThing, I was greeted this morning with a brick wall. Veered off into AnotherFictionThing for awhile. Benefit of having multiple things going at once.

(Question remains with Another: where do I start? (At the beginning, wherever that is...))

Also considering a new little weekend challenge for myself on non-newsletter weekends like this one though it won't start for two weeks. Recording here so I don't forget which I probably will do anyhow.

DD + Cousin Larry

in

Chilly though yet to be cold enough for the heat to kick on with any consistency in The Paintshop (I've taken to calling The Sanctum The Paintshop; it is thus rechristened) but I remain most appreciative that it's there (and looks good) and certain that it will help when come the days in which today's lows are the day's highs.

SHE-HULK finale fantastic (though I did hope for one last WongerSynn appearance) – especially Daredevil interacting with Cousin Larry (those who grew up with late 80s/early 90s, +/-, TGIF will know what I'm talking about) at a family BBQ.

Took a bit of getting used to (and it’s not without some weird iPadOS behavior), but I'm digging Obsidian 1.0: my brain is happy and tactile.

paintshop shambles

in

Waiting on the heat people to come and extend ductwork so I have heat from the furnace back there for the first time in the howeverlong I’ve been working in this space. Anticipating manic dogchildren.

ComicsThing scene being is a total shit and I can't figure out why. Don't know characters? Not needed? Usually it's one of those two but this feels like something else: a hybrid? (Responsible for my writing this instead of hammering it out? Or is this indicative of the utility of these writings? Yes, no, maybe.)

Today I will vanquish you, Waterblight Ganon, you and your accursed ice blocks. That I can't use my runes on my little Link-iPad while swimming is a source of much consternation.

shake / rattle

in

Efforts to "shake things up," as my therapist once advised, continue: little variations to the daily routine (Kirby off the leash instead of on in our morning trek into the out of doors for waking pissnshit, for example); bigger changes in the mindmapping pro/con etc etc stage (script drafted). Weary of feeling like a perpetual aspirant in this, my own little GROUNDHOG DAY loop minus Andie MacDowell or any other even moderately defined exit (most likely to another loop).