Stumbling Thru the March of Time, Pt. I: Slowly Unfurling the Curl

It wasn’t supposed to be this way…

For those of you (and I can name at least a dozen of my good friends and family who have made inquiries) that have wondered why I have remained largely incommunicado for the past month, worry no more. For those slightly fewer than that dozen who have asked why I haven’t posted anything on the Pylon for thirty days – oh, thirty days! – or the whole of February plus some spillover into the current month-strosity, the answer is at hand. For those fewer still who have wondered why I have left everyone hanging with the Oscar coverage, well, I quite simply had more important things to do than further ponder who would win in the Sean vs. Mickey battle (though I will tell you it should have been a tie), and especially more important than getting catty over the preponderance of mermaid dresses on the red carpet, fashion issues for which I care not one whit.

Early in January, things looked good. On or around the third of that month, I looked at the Pylon and thought, “Wow, I am feeling good. I am going to try and post every day this month.” By the fifth, that statement proved a lie, but I still hoped to post for most of the month. By the tenth, I had given up hope. After the 31st, I could no longer even bring myself to log into Blogger, not even to update my Oscar coverage.

It has nothing to do with that mythic and largely idiotic “syndrome” called “writer’s block,” something off of which Stephen King has made a pretty good living, because, even more than horror, what he likes to write about is writers. (This is no knock on The King… I still dearly love the guy. Danse Macabre sits by my bedside forever, and I am still hurting over the fact that I sold off my King collection when I married, since I happened to wed the second biggest King fan in Alaska at the time and we clearly needed the bookspace in my cramped abode. Years later, I think about the loss of those many first edition hardcovers and crave vengeance…)

But back to the syndrome at hand. This is nothing like “writer’s block.” I will never have “writer’s block.” I can see a mere stop sign on the roadside, and immediately start creating something out of virtually nothing in my head. Whether it makes it to paper or the computer screen is another matter, but the fact that nearly everything compels me to impulsively create or be creative is proof that such a syndrome will never occur to me. I write in my sleep, I write in the shower, I write on the bus, I write when I sneeze.

No, what I have is different. It is a swelling of the same old depressive state into which I have fallen since a child. The kind that makes me gradually shut down and curl into a ball at the head of the bed. The kind that slowly saps my interest in anything outside of my own mind. The kind that leaves me staring blankly at a television for hours, not really taking in shows I was purportedly invested in watching. The kind that has gone largely undiagnosed in all my years on this sphere, though one doctor did see fit to finally realize I had some form of ADD and dropped some pills into my for a number of months, off of which I weaned myself rather quickly, preferring instead my old manic self and the impish demons that came with it and got me into trouble from time to time.

For someone who usually watches, walks, eats, reads or does everything with a determined purpose and intent, the return of this cloud of depression is grim news indeed. My old friends would scoff at the notion that I “intend” anything in my actions, but ask Jen. Live with me for even a brief period, and you know that there is something, however misguided or selfish, behind every move I make. Even goofing around is serious for me. As I am fond of quoting, and as Frank Black sings in his melancholic ode to the Three Stooges and their career drive, “Some gibberish, it is so serious…”

I am not saying, “Ha ha! When I am finally a great success, you will all regret laughing at me!” in the manner of an old, megalomaniacal movie villain. It is not so self-delusional a drive where I believe that I am ultimately going to come out a gazillionaire. My intent is personal; my goals are mere happiness and content. My purpose is merely to wake up in the morning, feel that I have spent the day in some satisfyingly creative fashion, and retire to bed with dreams of the next day already building in my mind. Yes, like anyone of a creative bent, I dream of something I have written or conceived one day becoming a monumental success. I have plans and plots, both by myself and in concert with others of a similar purpose, where we seek to leap, through our own creations, into a better life. But my personal drive is of the inch, not the foot… it is not career driven, but rather emotionally driven. It is squarely and simply centered around getting through each day in the most soulfully pleasing fashion that I can.

And I have gradually ceased to meet this purpose more and more each day, over the course of five long months now…

(To be continued…)


Jon Dipre said…
Wow...don't call it a comeback, for he was clearly never gone. This is by far my favorite of all the postings I've ever read on this blog. Your talent really shines for me with this all too familiar subject. You are truly a writer's writer. I refuse to wait another 30+ days for Pt. 2. Bravo my good man...BRAVO!

P.S. in order to create a sense of legitimacy to what some may claim is an exorbitant comment, I'll remind the jury that I've been reading this blog for almost a year and a half and never once commented before.

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