No doubt you have noticed that I’ve been absent from the blogosphere for the last 6 weeks or so. I needed to take a break, recalibrate some things, and overcome a sudden loss of words.
Every time I thought about writing I would feel a tightness in my stomach that overrode my ability to hold a pen. Although my brain was crowded with thoughts, none of them stooped to form themselves into words.
It’s been a time of intensive reflection and questioning – is there any point in writing and performing? What is recognition? Is external validation why I am putting myself ‘out there’? What would happen if I just stopped – put down the pen and walked away?
Spoiler alert: I don’t have any answers, except to say that the words are slowly returning and the thought of writing is less likely to trigger a dry retching response.
There can be no promise of the quantity or quality of my work, but I do know that the words are my precious friends, and I hope that they will forgive me and return home.
Passing by The optical illusion of solidity is a trap for novice players. The road gives way to a stream that flows freely under a bridge to nowhere. Through misty rain glimpses of retired farm equipment catches my eye, tears of rust running into overgrown grass. Wooden fences lean into their final resting place. Folks don't come by here much anymore. They are either tourists with a malfunctioning GPS or are the sort of people who spend their weekends on old trains exploring almost forgotten stretches of line. They glimpse backcountry villages whose names are heavy with history but not anchored in our memories. Eventually the fragile threads of iron and wood will melt away, leaving behind suggestions of what might have been home.