When I began this blog at the start of the year, the posts came to me thick and fast, the subjects diverse and overwhelming as if opening the door a crack had caused everything inside me to rush to the light with the vociferousness of a torch-bearing mob crying for witchy blood. I knew it couldn’t last of course and the flow has become weaker until this week it slowed to a trickle.
As I pondered on this this morning I realised I had been spoiled at how easy it had become for me to write and that maybe I should just sit myself down with a pen and some paper regardless. But what to write?Obviously I would write about not writing.
I headed down to the beach and to T-Bay and sat on the windy deck. Nearly as soon as I began to write, as if the pen was scratching some kind of scab, the flow began and two posts flowed out and then a third. Here is the first at least.
There are a few reasons why the writing has slowed. Firstly at the start of the Summer, I committed to starting a group of paintings for a show next year and my attention turned in that direction. Typically of course, though the writing slowed, the act of painting has yet to take properly to the air. I have made some runs at it like a dodo galloping through a forest clearing in a stumbling, squawking effort to evolve into flight. You would think of course that writing and painting should be able to co-exist, but in reality my attention, though flea-like in some respects, is as difficult to manoeuvre as an elephant in a small room.
Secondly, I have always found Summer to be a difficult time to work. (Autumn, Winter and Spring too 🙂 )There is an idea embedded in my head that Summer is the culmination of Winters work, that Summer is somehow the time for success and socializing. The success and the socializing never, of course, materialize leaving me like a deflating balloon, directionless, flaccid and eventually farting to a halt in a rubbery puddle. I hate Summer.
This summer has also seen a lot of family visits, which has been great but in some cases intense and has left me with a lot to think about. Family was also the impetus for another trip out west and though I love trips away they discombobulate me and often I need to spend days(and days) on my return going around and around my house like a cat settling for the night.
And finally, my banana factory job, which was chugging along nicely has suddenly erupted into battleground for my benighted ego as previously unguessed at resentments have resulted in me being pushed into making concessions to my work schedule to accommodate new trainees who are being allowed to do as they want which is all very demoralizing. Who likes to spend 24 hours a week in a place that deems them less-than?The inner struggle has me narrow of lip and tight of jaw as my Brain feeds vociferously on itself and my Ego roars “NOOOO!” while the tiny, tiny Buddha me inside whispers “Let go.” I am hoping the Buddha wins.
But all is not lost. Sitting in the sun writing this has had the same effect on my mind as throwing a stick to an over energetic dog and Brain, tearing around the field of my mind, pen between its metaphorical teeth, has come racing back to me with three posts today. Thank you Brain.
And there will be another post too when I head north to the stony grey soil of Monaghan and my ancestral home, a place I have never been, and relatives whom I have not yet met.
Even better, there is the added attraction that I will be passing near Drogheda where Oliver Plunketts Head is housed, a head I have hankered to see since I first saw it when I was a strange child on a school trip many moons ago.
In the end, all it took was the physical act of putting pen to paper to find out that there was still plenty of scabs to scratch and if, metaphorically speaking, I end up looking as if I have been flayed at least I will have kept Brain intact. Unless Ego gets a hold of him. Sigh. Anyone got a stick?