The elevator to nowhere.

Do you hear that?  Yeah, that’s muzak.  Muzak plays in my head sometimes when the words won’t come.  Most of the songs have no name that I can conjure, even though I recognize the melodies, and I could hum a few bars ahead if you asked me to.  But you probably wouldn’t.  Would you like to do a really lame, mellow hip shake and head bob with me? No?  Suit yourself.

I was vegetating, just now, staring at a blinking cursor for so long that my tongue dried up and got stuck to the roof of my mouth and a weird “glick” sound came out of me when they separated suddenly.  That’s when I realized I was just sitting here with my mouth hanging open like a moron.  You know the expression – you’d never be caught dead with that expression on your face in the presence of anyone you respect in the least.

Of course, that’s why you usually end up realizing you’re doing it when you’re in the room with someone you idolize and/or adore.  Maybe lust.  Fortunately, this time, it’s just me and the laptop and a bunch of unfolded laundry.  And unless Keifer Sutherland is hiding in the hamper, I think it’s safe to say I got lucky this time.  (Or not.)

Sometimes I have so many things I need to say that I literally have a handful of posts, in varying stages of completion, open on my desktop at the same time.  Right now, I want to write about something, and my brain just feels, well, dry… like my mouth.

I want to complete a writing challenge, but my heart isn’t in it.  I want to tell a funny story, but the words won’t come.  It’s not that I’m in a bad mood, or sad.  I’m not stressed out, distracted, or overly tired.  I’m not depressed, anxious, or tense about anything.  But I know when it’s not right, because I feel like I’m forcing something.  When it’s good, and real, the words flow onto the screen, and I can’t stop them.

But tonight, I’m just doomed to step on the elevator to nowhere.  The lift operator has on one of those funny hats and he won’t even smile at me.  He’s kind of cute, though, and it looks like there’s a guitar case propped in the corner behind him.  Maybe halfway up, I’ll goose him and see what happens.

I think “The Girl from Ipanema” is playing now.  I always liked that one.

The stuff that gets in the way.

So, I have a confession: I have been having a hard time keeping my shit together lately.  See also: Hashimoto’s Thyroiditis (fatigue, joint pain, muscle weakness, hair loss, and more!), See also: Miscarriage Anniversary Looming, See also: Financial Distress, See also: Marital Issues, See also: I’m a headcase.

And it is true that I have had something like Writer’s Block for some time.  I have long spaces of time when I believe I have nothing to say that you will be interested in reading.  I sit down and think, “Surely I can come up with something!” And I open a text file and I stare at it, thinking.  Nothing comes.  Nothing is worth coming.

Then, other nights, I write things, posts, in text files and then I do not publish them.  Because they suck.  You would think they are stupid. (So I tell myself.) This would be more like Sharer’s Block? Blogging Anxiety? I Suckaphobia?

And then there are all the things that won’t come when I sit down to write them to you because there are other things that block them – things I can’t talk to you about.  What I mean by that is I have issues I WANT to share with you, but it feels weird to talk about this thing when I know I haven’t told you about thoooose things.

Do I write about those things?  Hell yes I do.  Is the writing good?  I think so.  Will I share it with you?

I can’t.

Some things you just can’t post to the world because they aren’t only yours to post, does that make sense?

But the more of those things that I have, the harder it gets for me to come here and talk to you about everything else, like my friends.  That’s kind of how I’ve always felt when writing these posts.  I know it’s somewhat silly to think that way, and I’m not trying to be mushy and sentimental to win you over.  It’s just the tone I always feel inside when I write to YOU.

This is not an academic essay I’m writing – though I can write those, I’ve completed tons of them in my time, and none too shabby, I’ll have you know.  It’s not a performance piece, where I just need to elicit emotion with whatever works.  It’s not fiction, where I can spin any tale just to delight.  It isn’t a review, where all I really have to do is lay out the way it works and what I think of it.

It’s an ongoing conversation I’m having with you about my life.

When there are bumps that invariably happen from my life intersecting with the lives of others, sometimes I can’t talk about those bumps.  Because it’s not my place to have the conversation that they might or might not want to have with you about THEIR lives.

So then, I guess I just have to say, Friends, there is(are) something(s) that is(are) affecting me in some way(s) that we can’t talk about.  And now I have to find a path around that(them) so I can keep talking to you about my other life stuff.

And that’s hard for me to do.  I’m emotional and the things I experience have a way of leaking and spilling out onto the rest of my life.  I should learn to compartmentalize more.  I don’t know.

And maybe this whole thing seems STUPID to you, because “DUH, LOTUS. We ALL have things we keep to ourselves.  We ALL have stories we don’t tell everyone.  Hell, most people don’t feel the need to tell everyone half the shit you think the world needs to know.  I mean, really, you tell us practically every time you have your period. GET A FILTER.”  And OKAY, FINE.  But the thing is, I’m still developing as a writer and a blogger.  This place defined itself to me from the start as My Blog: Where I Tell You What Runs Through My Head.  My idea of “what this is” has changed.  I can’t tell you what runs through my head when I’d have to tell you that Mr. C did horrible thing Y and I want to strangle his face until it turns blue and falls off.  Because you know, Mr. C has privacy rights.   I can’t tell you that I have a constant issue with Problem ABC and I think it’s because Mrs. W did batshit crazy thing X and it impacted me in a really profound way.

I can tell you about how I feel, but I can’t always tell you why. And that’s kind of douchey.  But Mr. C and Mrs. W own their own stuff, and I can’t tell it for them.

My family and friends have privacy rights.  Those assholes.

So let’s just say, that among other things, it’s taking me time, in fits and spurts to keep telling you my stories without telling you their stories.

Maybe one day there will be a time to talk about those things.  Perhaps there never will.  I’m trying to find a way to be okay with that and hoping I can just move past it.

I’m learning that it IS okay not to tell you everything (zomg) but I have to say it out loud for some reason.  I think, if I say this out loud right now, it’s going to help me move this block.

For now, maybe just saying to you that I’ll tell you most of everything, but not some stuff, will help me climb over this boulder, that mountain, and occasionally kick those rocks out of my way, so we can keep walking this path together.

I mean, it would be such a shame to miss the colors this season with you.  The foliage is so beautiful just up ahead.

If you see it, send it home to me.

Writer’s block – it sucks.
I avoid my computer,
distracted by life.

I just want to laugh
and play with my son all day,
take pictures, and live.

But even when I
sit here to talk to you I
can’t turn it back on.

The screen is too bright,
the keys are too hard; I just
want to walk away.

I’m missing something.
A light-hearted happiness
once possessed is gone.

Most days are now filled
with more laughter than sorrow.
But still, I’m searching.

I can’t find my Muse.
Always there before, but it
is taking a break.

I think it’s hiding
from the sudden crying spells
that keep creeping in.

I’m sure it will come
home again in time. until
then, I will struggle.

Even now I think,
“This is crap. I should not post.”
But it’s late. I’m tired.