Caught Between Here & Nowhere At All


I used to call it writers bloc. But I’ve come to realize that this inability to formulate perfect, complete, riveting and passionate sentences is more natural than nuisance and more truth than trial. I can recall a few times this last semester school, as well as throughout undergrad, when I would have it on my mind to write and bang out a piece with a single mindedness that was almost reflexive. In those rare moments when I was unable to color the page with the thoughts of my mind and rhythms of soul, I stared anxiously, confused at the blank screen before me. I would move from desk to table, from chair to floor to bed, from cafe to library to bedroom, trying to find my flow and some cunning scheme to coax the words from psyche to my lips. I had hoped to release the load of my mind by appeasing the desires of my body through comfort and bliss. However, I’ve come to realize the issue was not about the arch of my back, the quality of the caffeine on my lips nor the amount of cushions below my tush. No, it was about the unnatural character of everything I was doing to feel natural, one, whole, comfortable.

What I’ve learned is, when I cannot write, there is clearly a reason for it. To begin with, writing is not a natural occurrence. It is governed by strange rules of grammar. It breaks down the fluid, free nature of the spoken word and the unheard thought, into a system of conformity. There are those things cannot be spoken and then there are those things that should not be spoken, because they cannot or will not be broken into the bits, pieces and simplistic ordering of learned language. I’ve learned that when I cannot write, it is not because I’m inadequate or struggling, but because in that moment, I am called to simply stew. The spirit and mind are colluding together to force me, and you, into recalling what it means to simply be.free. Perhaps with yourself, with the messy, liberated nature of your own thoughts..no longer bending or shape-shifting to be understood and/or morphing from what you truly meant, how you meant it, felt it, heard it…into how you sold it, told it and packaged it.

So I’ve come to understand writer’s bloc as the mind’s liberation and break from being broken into submission. It is a mandate, a requirement to take some time to be somewhere between here–the literal, physical space of our existences–and nowhere at all, that place within without a name. Writer’s bloc insures that the writer maintains her/his humanity and does become a machine or stenographer detached from context, complexity or narrative. With that said, I’ve began to celebrate, today, writer’s bloc as something separate from it’s colloquial conception as the damn blockading intellect and creativity within from escaping outside the body..but instead a system of filtration that insures our thoughts, processes and practices are routinely purified from the toxins of our learned and lived environments.

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