I thought I could write on anything, until it occurred to me this year that I cannot. It was a mysterious development, and one I was not used to. Until I delved further and studied its roots more deliberately, just the other day. Then, it made sense- an infinite amount of the stuff.
In this instance, I speak of politics. Of a topic that was always ‘on demand’ simple in my brain. Until last November, when it turned my creative juices on the topic into a hazy shade of winter. And maybe this sounds crazy, but I can’t bring myself to write on the happenings since November changed the world we’re living in.
Perhaps I should make excuses. Like, “Hey, you can’t satirize satire.”, or “Why parody the parody?”. And I have done that, made excuses. But I shouldn’t be making excuses. I should accept what’s happened to this particular part of my brain and just wait it out. Because I know, full well, that there will come a day when the dam will burst and the words will come pouring out and then all those excuses will seem like elegant sounding absurdities.
So yes, I have learned I cannot write on just anything, at any time, as I damn well please. I have come to understand that there are some things to which I have no answer. And you know something? Good. Because it tempers me, humbles me, teaches me. About the writer I am and the process I choose and the treacherous path that begins with a blank white sheet.
The ability to convey your thoughts into some better sounding thing is a gift, and maybe I forgot that. Maybe I was taking it for granted. I don’t know. What I do know is that I am grateful. To be a writer. To know what writing means to me. And I am eternally thankful to one writer in particular. My favorite one. Because I talked this out with her the other day, and she listened. As only she can do. And her thoughts on the matter behaved as a salve to my senses.
She’s something I could write on. All day long. Which is why I’m plenty fine with throwing any political diatribes in the rear view, for now. Because I have a topic on which I can spin tales from here to the moon and back. And it matters more than all the other things I could write on.
It reminds me of a poem by Pablo Neruda . . . .
You can crush the flowers, but you can’t stop the spring.
My political flavor has indeed wilted, and while it hasn’t died . . it has been crushed in the cycle of stupid that perpetuates our trending news. And she lets me know it’s a ‘so what’ proposition. Because there’s plenty ’nuff to write on. Like the spring time I feel in the ways of a girl who put a spell on me. So there.
Here’s to you, Cat Woman. I love your purr and your poetry, your rhythm and your rhyme. I love the way you make my world feel, just by being in the grand ballroom of my existence.