But I'm not even trying! I do not read. Well, I read newspapers and books on health and nutrition. Perhaps a bit of science. Nothing lyrical and nothing that trips the wire that maybe could rumble the motor into motion.
Is this stubbornness? Is it just a matter of I don't want to do that please leave me alone already?
One must be compelled to create. When I was in the poetry portion of my MFA program--two semesters--my brain was depressed and dead. I wrote anyway and having no particular attachment to the poems it felt like nothing. Nothing. It wasn't writing as I knew it. It was just going through motions. Even now, those poems don't really seem to be my own. My book of poems--those poems are in there, along with others, and I can see that they are rather good, but they are not mine, not really.
They weren't born of storm They are not magic not fey-touched not pointed-eared not green-haired. They are simply words I put together on the screen, more like writing exercises than poems.
I suppose the good and hopeful thing is that I am beginning to bemoan my lack of writing and inspiration and word madness. I have to miss the thing to find a way to fly smash back through the window. And this requires a twist of brain, a slight of hand. The head must become balloon. Must fire into the chamber and lift itself up hot air away over the mountains. And when this happens, she will snap and crackle and burn until she doesn't. And that could be the thing--just caution.....
Last summer I wrote so much it became painful. And scary. Almost. Wait, maybe that was two summers ago it is all a blur. I wrote so much I couldn't stop the words how exciting how marvelous I will be completely mad soon. Hypergraphia. It did not last long, maybe a month or so. And I was very lucky that I didn't swing down into a depression. Because that has happened, and did happen just before my huge smackdown in 2013 that began this phase of my life--this regrouping, redefining. A huge magic words full-on storm mania before the enormous depression.
Right now I am happy and content and dead level. Of course, this is an illusion. I have to remind myself seeing as how I can't keep track of myself even when I record everything--I still cycle. I'm still perched on the ledge I'm still awake inside the girl forever sitting on the wooden swing perpetually swinging. But I am so blessedly level and stable. Somehow. And so long past waiting for the other shoe.
And did I, the whirligig girl with green hair just ask that question? Has the world come round to this