I might follow the yellow brick road, we all know it worked for Dorothy. I failed to determine the nature and reason of the track and now this blog is sinking. The end is yet to be determined and as usual I call upon the author to explain but this time she's missing.
There's no hook to my days at the moment. No tag line, no cheap way of rendering clouds into words. Not a moment of amusement worthy of recalling nor a writhing pit of despair throwing out words worse than fire. The sentences keep deserting me. At first there was nothing only a wondering at the lack of sentences but now I am angry. I am sitting in my office all day seething with anger. It is anger without words or a point of focus. This is not heartbreak or old fashioned artistic frustration and the doubting of my soul. It is plain ugly anger and I frighten myself thinking what if I had someone to take it out on. What if I beat my own imaginary wife?
I have a suspicion but it is small and mewling pitifully not a charging thing of hardened hooves like they usually are. If I was a game then anger is the comical giant monster that appears for no reason and must be defeated with five blows counting as one before the level ends and the portrait of myself, drawn by others, moves up a level.
The problem, the problem THE PROBLEM the problem this problem is I haven't found all the bags of gold stashed under rocks and behind squeaking animated nonsenses. I'm not finished on this level. I didn't find any entrance to a cave. There were no sudden stone gates or opening walls. I haven't jumped over any pits of lava or swum through infested waters with a miraculous bubble round my head. I'm just walking and walking and beginning to think I might like it here and then it descends and the oversized monster appears. I need my sentences back. The only way to fight invisible monsters is with words.
There's no hook to my days at the moment. No tag line, no cheap way of rendering clouds into words. Not a moment of amusement worthy of recalling nor a writhing pit of despair throwing out words worse than fire. The sentences keep deserting me. At first there was nothing only a wondering at the lack of sentences but now I am angry. I am sitting in my office all day seething with anger. It is anger without words or a point of focus. This is not heartbreak or old fashioned artistic frustration and the doubting of my soul. It is plain ugly anger and I frighten myself thinking what if I had someone to take it out on. What if I beat my own imaginary wife?
I have a suspicion but it is small and mewling pitifully not a charging thing of hardened hooves like they usually are. If I was a game then anger is the comical giant monster that appears for no reason and must be defeated with five blows counting as one before the level ends and the portrait of myself, drawn by others, moves up a level.
The problem, the problem THE PROBLEM the problem this problem is I haven't found all the bags of gold stashed under rocks and behind squeaking animated nonsenses. I'm not finished on this level. I didn't find any entrance to a cave. There were no sudden stone gates or opening walls. I haven't jumped over any pits of lava or swum through infested waters with a miraculous bubble round my head. I'm just walking and walking and beginning to think I might like it here and then it descends and the oversized monster appears. I need my sentences back. The only way to fight invisible monsters is with words.
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