I have a whopper of a case of writer's block today. Usually, I walk around with a surplus of little ideas, and have several half-written posts roaming around my desktop, but I can't seem to get anywhere with any of them.
When I woke up this morning, my brain was running about like a panicked animal; there's stuff and stuff and more stuff that I need to get done. Usually it's a good bet that my body will follow suit when my brain flies off the handle like this, but I started moving through the ballet that precedes lifting weights, and everything sort of settled a bit. I went for a quick walk, and the sun broke through for the only time during this rather dreary day, and I got home, and I felt happy, and I sat down...
This is why I like trading in facts. There is nothing amorphous in writing about...aspergillus. It's a fungus. Nothing changes that. You can speculate about why a hillside fell down or how a building collapsed or how H5N1 might travel across the world, but there are certain facts upon which you hinge your argument.
Then there's life. Life is messy and filled with intangibles. Life is filled with grocery shopping, and the screech of tires, and a cat who is trying to eat the salmon you are serving for dinner before you get it to the table. Life is filled with three different neighbors who decided there will be jackhammers this week. There are the aging parents who are still vital people, but who have issues that must be addressed. There are the cupcakes that need to go to school tomorrow, even if I did mess them up and forgot to cream the butter before I added the sugar and applesauce. They still smell good and will taste fine. But I don't like screwing up.
Life is filled with stories, but somedays the stories just don't want to be told. How very aggravating of them. How very aggravating of me that I can't find the words to tell them anyway, or even figure out which story is worth relating.
Go listen to some good music: "Message in a Bottle" from the album Regatta de Blanc by the Police.