But My Garden is Nice

My blog game is off. I can't seem to recapture it at the moment. Everything seems so significant. Until I sit down to write about it. And if I think too much about that, about how writing completely eludes me right now, my funk will grow and sit on my shoulders heavily until I'm able to will it back down to a manageable nag; a faint, distant pull.

I've shut down creative sources because I'm dead exhausted by the idea of working so hard to squeeze it in. I've banned baking so I can shed the 8 pounds contributed to that hobby. The big-ass painting that I started a while ago rots on the patio -- The canvas has unlodged itself from the frame and what seemed like such a strong piece becomes less and less important as the layers of dirt collect on it. Files and files of stories yellow in my drawer. All my creative promise becomes more languid and slippery with every passing week, year. I can't even confirm if 2007 had a June or July. I don't remember them clearly.

Very late at night, I'll stand on my deck barefoot and in my underwear after the house is shut down and dark. Everyone is asleep. I'll look at the sea-marined sky silhouetted with palm trees and my initial gush has been that of doom. Death and earthquakes. Loss. Panic. I shove and push in thoughts of gratitude as remedy. "My life is rich and wonderful." I beg the doom is not instinctual. And I then shut the dark thoughts down and spackle them over with easy wishes. Back to day dreaming about the lottery and my next tattoo and for a more leisurely life where I have time to flow, where the creativity doesn't back up and fester into a toxic cloud that I keep pushing back down into a tight, dormant geyser.