Blank Mind, Blank Page

Yet something vivid fills the void

Photo by Ricardo Gomez Angel on Unsplash

As I sit here thinking it's time to write, I find myself with a blank head to match the blank page. In such cases, I realize I'm trying to speak to an audience rather than speak from my heart. And yet, when I get present enough with myself, or at least what passes for present in my system, the topics fly through like targets in that old Asteroids game I used to play. Like meteorites, I catch only glimpses before they disappear.

So many points, all of which seem equally important. Ah, I long for the days when I could identify one major point backed with full body, vibrant emotion -- be it frustration or elation -- to become absorbed with and elaborate upon in depth, with a verbal finesse that, like the ineffable grace of ballet dancers, would bring tears to my eyes.

Yet today, it's like slogging through muddy gray thick pea soup. I can almost feel the sticky viscous goo like the dense saliva of some alien monster weighing me down. But for all I know that's just another dissociated trauma memory that I'm not yet prepared to root out. But then, given past attempts, the moment I tried it might quantum leap into another dimension of my headspace, lost in limbo for another 50 years.

There's lots of encouragement for facing your shit. I've seen no acknowledgment that sometimes, your shit just don't wanna be faced. What can you do?!

I talk with people almost daily who have their keen mind intact: focused and expressive. I marvel at this. Many are half my age. I'm happy for them. Others, nearer my age, dealing with similar conditions, can still easily recall an entire sentence or several spoken paragraphs and respond intelligently and in detail.

In my case, I'm lucky to faintly recall the gist. I'll have a feeling impression but can't repeat a single point, despite my best efforts to pay attention. I've tried taking notes. The dismembered words are like isolated shards of stained glass. If I can't be present with myself, I can't be present with others. I'm pretty sure that's how it works.

Inside my head, it looks like a swarm of highly caffeinated amoebas randomly bounding about. Whatever they're up to, it isn't anything particularly relevant. Or maybe I'm the one focused on the wrong thing. Maybe it's time I wallow in the murk along with them. Maybe then I wouldn't feel so alone.

I'm in a funky mood. For once, publicly writing my actual thoughts in the moment just because they're there. Supposedly this is more authentic. I can't imagine it being all that interesting, much less actually appealing. One school of thought says, just share. Another say, share confidently. Another says, share what it "actionable." I fucking hate that word! It's like chewing steel wool. Another says, make 'em think. All or none may be relevant in some dimension of society. But that I could make anyone think seems a preposterous notion. I can only reveal. The rest is up to them.

I'm in no mood to romanticize this cold, gray Autumn day. The pretty leaves have all fallen now. Some still green remnants doggedly deny the inevitable. Another few dry brown husks cling hopelessly to branches progressively leeched of sap, eager to release what no longer serves the greater good. I wonder if they feel the purpose in their short lives was well served. Maybe to be used and soon discarded is considered noble in trees. If so, my empathy is once again misplaced.

I pray for January, beyond the start of the new year. I pray for the warmth heralded by longer days. I pray for the sweet scent of fresh Spring grasses and wildflowers emerging from the musty remnants of winter. I pray for solace. I pray for home.