Since returning from Crescent City, California, I’ve found myself with a strange case of writers block. Strange, because I still keep my journal and I write lengthy notes, but I’m not writing words worth the sharing.
Meanwhile there’s a billion words swirling about my head like the multitudes of high-desert stars. And though they’re all there, I can’t seem to reach out and pick a single one from the hoard screaming left, right and up the center of my fevered brain.
Alpha and Omega.
Anyone looking at my journals, my notes, if ever they look, may well conclude that Covid-2020 was the year I slipped, drinking ‘Fireball’ and ‘Claw,’ taking long walks after dark, began loudly arguing with myself and visiting neighborhood dogs as a diversionary tactic. But I want it remembered: I’m built for this shit!
Others, maybe you, have it worse.