Sunday, January 27, 2019

writer’s block

a work in progress

Why do I not want to read what I have written?
(in order to get back into the wax book,
in which I fear my interest has waned,
for I have not been attending to it.)

– but, also –

Why do I not want to write, period (right now)
just, rather
daydream
about writing
this writing I intend to do
while sitting in this room
and meanwhile – what color shall I paint this room?
(mind goes a’ wanderin’, down its own path) – maybe a light amber?
(a path unknown to all others) – or the color of beeswax?
(unknown to me) – here we have Liquid Honey
(finding its own way, a’ drift) – and Glaze Gold
(shall I come along?) – Roasted Chestnut, Tuscan Yellow
(to follow or walk alongside)
in step, out of step
misstep, stumble
flow, glide
catch me, twirl me
leave me
come back

Why would I rather sweep the floor? Scrape old treads from the bath tub?
Or clean caked dust from the intake vent (for the heating system)
that I discovered – the dust, not the vent –
while putting up a bamboo Roman shade
(the shade of which was “Driftwood”)
from Menards. I dropped a washer (not the screw)
and it fell through the grid
(covering the vent)
into the vent
(which is under the living room windows) –
and it occurred to me that the house my family lived in
(before I was six)
had vents in the floor
because I remember these little painted turtles
bought at the pet shop
disappearing
and that’s where they went,
down into the vents,
and maybe we should keep these little turtles in their bowls
under their plastic palm trees or how about just keeping our eyes open
when they are out for a walk –
so I went after the washer
(the metal grid lifts off)
and was able to retrieve it
(we rescued turtles, too, I am sure of it)
and for some reason my hand went deeper into the vent
(which runs parallel to the floor underneath the floor
and I had cleaned it – but only the part I could see –
two months ago)
and of course back there now
(unseen)
my hand was encountering
a half-inch layer
(or so)
of matted dust
laced with the silver tinsel of a Christmas (past).
I hauled out this concoction
along with some marbles –
two yellow and one orange cat’s eyes.
(Two months ago I extracted
two pennies, one acorn, a dusky blue button, some plastic beads.)
With a wooden ruler I extended my reach
and with a wooden yardstick
went farther then further,
gathering more dust,
gathering more tinsel.

I did not like the Roman shade after all.

I returned it.

I went to Lowe’s and got a cordless cellular shade that:
– cost less than the bamboo Roman shade;
– was easier to install, had no washers to drop;
– came without a designated color (though I think: “Driftwood”).

And –
I liked it.

Also at Lowe’s I got some screening with which to cover the vents
(there are three)
actually making a sandwich of
the grill, the screen,
the depths of the vent.

Yes, I would rather do all this –
Anything but write

even though I think and think
about writing (or maybe I’m thinking about not writing)
even while reading about reading.
It makes me think of how I write – or not.
Because this book, Reader, Come Home,
touches on how reading
affects writing and writing
affects reading and although
writing seems a dual process
of writing & reading
(simultaneously),
reading, I muse, is singular.
Just reading. Is it not?
But of course this book explains,
cites research,
reading + thought.
Reading is not innate.
Reading is learned.
Reading is a creation of our minds.
A capability
of our brains.
It can be shallow;
it can be deep.

And then there’s the digital world of reading and writing
and tell me:
Are you reading this in,
like,
an
“F”
pattern?

Are you reading at all? Are you getting it? Getting what you need?
(Surely it’s no coincidence
blowing through
at this very moment
Moby Dick – !)

But!

Arg!

Anything but writing!

Instead, I sit.
I dream.
Put up blinds.
Work a jigsaw.
Sweep the floor.
Chase down dust.
Take a walk.
Concoct a blog post.
Ponder colors.
Make a list.
Scrape at treads
stuck to a bathtub.

But wait! it’s true –
As all must wax,
all must wane,
And so must all wax again.

The color turned out to be Tuscan Yellow and a new chapter begins:

Ozokerite . In which we unearth Wax of the Wild West and “Gunplay” Maxwell.

Phew.
Back in the saddle,
dust trails behind me.


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