Thursday, September 06, 2012


My mind has been consciously and subconsciously centered on one thing:

I'm writing an application. The personal statement is killing me slowly, surely, by ebb and flow of tides of procrastination.

But I'm finding the words are stuck. I'm stuck. My thinking is stuck. My body is stuck. My imagination is stuck. My heart is stuck.

Things have been stuck for a long while.

This is an understatement.

This is coming from inside me. (I have been taught never to use "this" in such a way but to always define it. That is not as much fun or evident when one is stuck)

I had tea with a poet friend last week. We talked about being stuck. In life. In words. She just recently started writing again. "Bad poems" she called them. She is really happy, in a relieved, "Oh my gosh the morphine just kicked in and the pain has disappeared" kind of relief. You only know it if you've experienced it: the hopeful expectation that, just perhaps, that pain will never be felt again. It had been an entire summer without writing a single piece. If you knew this friend, you would know how scary a change that is.

But now she is writing bad poems and is happy.

She said, "I stopped thinking about all the bad poem's I've written. I stopped remembering them and became afraid that I would never write anything good again. But I'm glad I did [write bad poems] because they got me somewhere. They taught me something."

I'm currently watching some pieces of my life play out like bad poems. I wrote the whole damn thing. Now I'm watching. Stuck.

But I am learning.  And I'll be someone worth being on the other side of Stuck.

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