Death of Creativity...

The psychotropics killed my "juice", or at least forced it cowering into a darkened cob-webby place. Last year, when I started this blog, there was depression, emotional trauma and re-evaluation, aborted bliss, and submission to vice. Those posts seem eons more creative than the blather I paste on here of late. The only time I feel the "juice" percolating is late at night in those furry moments twixt slumber and conscience, stirring restlessly around the edges of cognizance and probing tentatively at the caged volatility imprisoned by a serotonin task master.

In deference to the sanity of family, hearth and MBA, I will continue to obey the commands of my chemical jailers until such time as I can release the "juice" to wreak havoc with my liver, lungs and psyche producing sublime and quixotic verse. How I long for the rush of expressions fighting to be first to the nib... Mmmmm but the price is high.

Memory Lane

Lately it seems that I have had the pleasure of taking a stroll down the byways of my memories. Navigating the sulci and gyri of my past populated with the aromas, colors and catch phrases of loves long gone, it used to be that this particular avenue was barricaded with large orange "detour" signs posted for no through traffic. Until recently, a mere peek down that lane elicited self-doubt, questions of worth and meaningless idiot loops of why's.

For some reason or other, recently the ban seems to have been lifted and I have tentatively swung onto this path for a few forays into the gardens of my loves lost. No pain, no doubt, no struggle accompanies me here, just the lovely remembrances.

God, I hope this doesn't signal maturity...

Disbelief

paralyzed - abject gawping, staring, and absolute disgust. There are no words for this:

shithead

and please realize this is not an isolated incident. And, furthermore, I am not limiting myself to complete revulsion only with regard to heinous bird atrocities, but squirm with real pain when ANY animal is subjected to the wanton and spurious actions of humans.

Liofe Hasppens...

or, "Life Happens". How do you maintain the desire?? The desire to write every little brain blip, every little postulate, every little nebulous observation...

What started as a venue for a recovering pessimist and depressive, a quiet non-judgmental place to rant, to expound, to forgive my self and others, now seems to be rather a small monkey(marmoset-like as I see it in my mind's eye) chattering in my wee ear about all the things I haven't written. And when I do get here, it all seems so mundane, these letters and words that spill from my digits.

My poetry is on hiatus and my dreams are on overdrive, but so tenuous that I can grasp only the faintest tendrils - France (Louis XIV), even now they slip seductively into my subconscious only to resurface during the interplay of shadow and REM. School sucks the intellectual fire from my conversation, and challenges my esteem in the face of barely 20's langorously sporting success like a well-worn Polo while I still struggle with my meaning, my purpose.

Fortunately it's not all grey... I have an other who I am finally beginning to appreciate and for whom I feel true fondness. Birds and dogs are my mainstay, preening my eyelashes, nostrils and eyebrows with ferocious determination and accuracy. Rallying to my side for daily walks and affirmation, riding my shirt like adrenalin junky mountaineers, and tempting me to expose my softest parts despite the risk of pain.