I’m using OmmWriter on my Macbook Pro to write this post. It’s one of those beautiful hidey-hole appllcations that tries to extinguish as many desktop distractions as possible to the whole prospect of writing. All that’s in my field of vision are two barren trees in the midst of what remains from a furious winter storm. It’s calming, in a way. It’s just me, a cursor, and my trees. If you are a Mac user, and someone who writes, I would suggest this little app. It’s a beta project, which kind-of sums up the human condition - we are constantly in beta. We live in the push and pull of change (both purposed and unforeseen). It fits.
I haven’t written in awhile. My own beta project went to shit about six months ago, or maybe it had been off the rails for an eternity, and I just failed to see the neon signs that pointed at the personal failure and tragedy looming around the corner. Anyway - that’s a story worth telling one day… but not today. There’s still way too much swirling around for me to speak with resolve or clarity. I’ll let that one stew for a bit.
I’ve been in a funk. A desire to write, but nothing to say. A longing to put away the everyday that I have to do, so that I can focus on what I want to do. It’s hard. Maybe it’s because I’m about to turn 36. And there’s serious fucking implications there, you know? I didn’t consider what those were until the revelation smacked me in the head like a satellite tearing through the atmosphere, plummeting back to earth: I’m officially closer to 40 than I am to 30. I’m very uncomfortable with that. A part of me clings to that old addage of being only as “old as you feel”, but shit… lately? Well, lately I’ve felt like hell. I’ve realized that if I overeat, I’ll pay for it in the middle of the night with heartburn that seems to know no bounds. And I’m not bouncing back like I used to. I did something to my left shoulder three weeks ago that still hurts. Alot. Heather took one look at me as I was shirtless one afternoon and declared, “There’s something not right about the way your shoulder looks. Shit! …Maybe you dislocated it!” When she’s not looking, I start voraciously trolling medical websites, hoping to find some match to what I’m encountering. It seems that I’m in possession of a range of symptoms which might be indicative of a 1) torn rotator cuff, 2) a bone bruise, 3) muscle tears and strains, and of course, 4) the aforementioned dislocated shoulder. Aside from the torn rotator cuff, your options for treatment when it comes to your shoulders are limited. They all seem to climax at the same moment - get a sling, and take truckloads of Ibuprofen. That’s helpful. No, really. you’ve already done too much.
Sadly, I have this aversion to medicine, doctors, blood pressure cuffs, people in pristine white outfits, nurses, charts, scrubs, anatomically ambiguous representations of humans on which it is my responsibility to label “where it hurts” and so on. I’ll tell you where it hurts. It hurts in my hand, because I’ve had to fill out what seems to be 3 or 29 or 87 variations of the same form just for some dude to walk in, ask me what I think is wrong, and have him base his diagnosis/prescriptions on what I read the previous evening on WebMD. Talk about physician heal thyself. That’s my new mantra. i’m determined not to spend the money. That could go for a really nice dinner at Red Lobster. Or Longhorn’s. Shit - you could splurge a little and go for the big guns - frigging Outback, man. Blooming fucking onion. That’s all I’m saying. Somewhere, I think that there are some Biblical props thrown down on a slab of red meat and the perfect accompanying beer, and their unique healing powers. I have to locate that…
So. Suffice to say, personal crap is occuring, my body is slowing turning against me, and I’m already bald. SCREW-ED. I’m realizing that I sound alot like Andy Rooney, which makes me cry and laugh like a schizophrenic.
But I’ve come to this conclusion: I need a muse. Something had to kick me in the ass, and get me motivated to say something about anything. And then I got a gem.
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