It kinda sucks having writers block. Just thinking of all the things you could be writing about, but can't. I mean, what's that about, really?
Maybe it's just that nothing seems good enough. Maybe some carefree humility is in order -- the guts to just ramble, and see what comes out. Or maybe not.
Nah, I just added that last bit for conflict.
Conflict. Now there's a concept. They say no story can be interesting without conflict of some kind. Sayings like that tend to make pacifists like me worry a bit, and want to prove everyone wrong. An' so far, I be havin' nay luck at-all. Err... help?
Anyway... on this writer's block thing. There's that wood carving story I wanted to write. Something about true craftmanship and honing wood and raw blocks of unfashioned potential becoming icons of perfect skil; emblems of utility. Somehow, right now, I can come up with about two expressions for carving and carved wood. Yeah, that was them I think. Pitiful, huh?
That picture. That girl's face that seemed more real than anything. Those stunning eyes; sharp jawlines. That hand, held out like it could stop time, or stop a heartbeat. Now that's something worth writing about. Connection, meaning, ineffable expression from one soul to another. Direct transmission, religion might call it. Love? No, not that sort of thing. Was it just a good photographer or a good pose? No, more than that. Humanity. Something about humanity. And potential. Deep strength; deep wisdom; communicated. Hahhah, or not.
That song, maybe? Those lyrics? Is it plagiarism to be inspired to write by the lyrics of a song? Did the lyrics matter, or was it the soulful voice that sang the words?
Hmm. There's something very pleasant about ruminating over writing material while sipping hot cocoa. The big wide mug has simple but beautiful, oriental-style sumi-e plants painted to wind their way up the side. And a beautiful white glaze. Yes, just another ceramic glaze, but it's such a cool thing, up close. Such a glaze can save a shuttle from the sun-like intensity of re-entry to our world. Or, such a glaze can carry random, life-giving nutrients to the lips of a too-pure soul.
I do like this pleasantry... this feeling of being lost in the flow of beautiful words. If I had a topic right now, I'd be all set. But contentment reigns, and time stretches out endlessly. A low hum, a low hum. Meaning in everything, a friend said. Listen. A voice, familiar. No words discernable, but the mind ascribes anyway. Sometimes anger, sometimes pleasure. Never joy. That voice never carries joy. But then, once in a while... once? It's been a while.
There, I'm done. But the pleasantry remains.