Oh for a muse of fire…

I can’t write anymore. I’ve been reduced to the cliche of the writer who writes about not being able to write.

I’ve stared longingly at the dashboard of this blog for hours, for days, wishing I had something to say, but the things I want to share I can’t write here.

Is anyone still reading?

What if we make a pact? I will post every day for a week, just for the sake of posting. Perhaps it will be dry, and tedious, but at least there will be something to chew on. Brain jerky. It will be like one of those photo blogs with snapshots of the contents of my head.

Work is all-consuming right now, which is good. It filters the worry usually reserved for the rest of my life. It makes my general anxiety make more sense. Currently I’m asking myself why I do this at all, but I know ten minutes after show time I’ll remember.

Therapy yesterday felt clear, and positive. I know what I want. That’s good. Not sure I’ll get it, but none of us really knows, do we?

I’m particularly interested in seeing how the next three months of my life shake out. No big decisions, no grand conclusions, no final deductions can be made at present. So I remain suspended in time, meditating on patience and faith.

Then I need to know, to absolutely know where I’m headed.

I’m convinced that there is a reason for all this waiting. A reason that I’m vaguely aware of, but unable to articulate. Spidey sense whispers secrets in my ear, especially when I’m dreaming, and I’m listening all of the time.

Last night I dreamt that I was in Paris with an old friend from high school named Julie. She and I were in the Metro, and she was seeing me off as I headed to the airport, destined for home. The news in the city of lights was consumed with tales of a homicidal maniac who had been attacking people with a razor, but I had barely paid any heed because of the language barrier and because I was enjoying my vacation.

As Julie kissed me goodbye, we were approached by this lanky, gaunt man wearing dirty, tattered clothes. He had dark hair, and hollow, glassy eyes. He grabbed my hand suddenly, and forcefully, and pressed something into it, using his own hand to force my grip. His lips parted and he whispered “Merci” as he swiftly used my hand to drag a flashing blade across his throat. I must have pulled back, because he wasn’t satisfied with the cut, so he did it again, this time hitting his jugular. Julie and I watched him bleed to death in my arms.

The authorities came. There were enough eye witnesses to realize that I was in no way at fault. I was traumatized, and fortunately a very kind female investigator was able to arrange my questioning for later.

I took solace at the home of my friend Lenni, who shared a lovely Paris apartment with her partner Simon and their wee baby. As the investigator was packing me into the taxi, I woke up, and needed to take several deep breaths.

My dreams are vivid, and disturbing, and in every single one I’m either looking for something or trying to get somewhere.

Meh, quoth I.

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  1. Mark Schoenberg
    February 5, 2010 / 12:13 pm

    I see. Nothing to write about. Other than a vivid, gripping noir tale that might be sold to the cinema. Pauvre petite.

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