numb fumbling

there are two kinds of empty. one is that dank smelly confusion of vapors that you feel when you're depressed or lonely. all the things you thought about yourself seem unlikely, the good and the bad, so that being anywhere but your own hole in the ground seems like a bad act. you feel like the most obvious kind of fraud, the kind that nobody confronts because they feel too sorry for you.

and the other kind is how you feel after a good conversation, a good workout, or a good...you can imagine. it's how i feel after writing, sometimes...in fact my rule is never to post anything here that hasn't made me feel like i've taken a good...you can imagine. it's the way you feel when you finish doing what you were made to do. some people get it after playing a sports game, some people get it after watching a game. some people get it after a lifetime of work, some people can't get it until their lifetime of work is over and their retirement begins.

at the moment, i feel full. full isn't bad, like the first kind of emptiness, but it's frustrating, it's maddening. i feel like your five-year-old in line for the bathroom, hopping up and down. don't ask him why he didn't go before you left the house...he would have if he could have, but it wasn't his time!

when is my time? it's likely to come all of a sudden. until it does, my stomach rumbles, my breath labors to regulate the burgeoning energy, my head buzzes. i feel like i'm living in a perpetual freeze frame of the part of the movie where the music swells.

you could well ask what kind of cue i'm waiting for. why don't i just get started?

how would a born basketball player be able to just get started if he'd never heard of the game? how would a great dancer get started if she had no access to music? that's where i seem to be, fans and critics.

where are you?

what cue are you waiting for?

(first published 1.9.08, 7.24pm)