I used to have the urge to write all the time, just to indulge those itchy fingers and get those mundane thoughts out into the ether, get them out of me. Now I spend a lot of time thinking about sitting down to write something and then thinking about what I would write and getting SO FUCKING BORED with myself. I have nothing to add to the conversation at large. I never did, probably, but…
I just drove all the way downtown to a stretch I have been wanting to photograph for two weeks, only to drive right past it, scowl at how the setting sun was backlighting it, and then come back home, grumbling about how I sure hope my child is talented because I am a hack who will never make art again, blah blah blaaaah. And now I’m in my underwear eating cereal and confessing this to…
Argh, this is driving me crazy. I can’t write. My brain feels constipated but no amount of squeezing yields … anything. There’s so much happening, trails being blazed every day, and yet. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to write. It feels like everything I could possibly say is trite and worn. And don’t even talk to me about taking pictures. It’s like I’ve never taken a single one in my life and wouldn’t even know…
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