DID ANYONE ELSE HEAR THAT?
You may have noticed, dear reader, that over the past month or so I have not been writing very much. Amidst the relative chaos of the world around me – my immediate surroundings that is, not the larger world in general [don’t even get me started about the world in general (I mean seriously, Lebanon, Iraq, Iran, the Republicans, mid-term elections, etc, etc.)] – and the quasi-depression that it has been causing, I seem to have lost my words. Seriously, I seemed to have forgotten how to write. I would try but sentences would not occur; I might come across a jumble of adverbs or a gaggle of participles now and then, but sentences, never. Please don’t ask me to think about the dearth of paragraphs that befell me; in fact I am considering composing a funeral dirge entitled “Alas for the Missing Paragraphs in 3/4 Time” complete with cymbals, tympani, and the wailing of widows in five part harmony.
There seems to have been what I can only describe as an inaudible buzzing in my brain obscuring my attempts to form sentences, paragraphs, and narratives to be transferred to the page, electronic or otherwise. Now I do not wish you to get the wrong idea here; I have not gone crazy or anything remotely close to that. I have not been swatting at the invisible insects that presumedly caused this inaudible buzzing; let us regard this soundless sound as more of a metaphor, a figurative something that stands in for the a certain buffering that seems to have been blocking the flow of words.
As you can see, I struggle to describe this loss of words within which I have been mired. It hasn’t been at all like a writer's block, or at least it has been unlike any incarnation of such a phenomenon that I have previously endured – and I have had many on both verbal and visual fronts. That inaudible buzz is the best way I can represent my inability to write, dear reader, and it has not so much been in my head, but around it, or perhaps just under the surface, interfering with the inward and outward flow of words, not entirely, but just enough of a signal disruption to render sentences – such as this one – unable to form. But that has changed, there is no longer the need for dirges and I may finally let the timpanists, cymbal crashers, and professional wailers return to their normal lives, because I have found my words.
Now, whether this is a good thing or not shall remain to be seen. Now that I have reclaimed my capacity to write I feel free to unleash ungodly grammars upon the world once again, to allow my sentences free range to compensate for the undue imprisonment they have suffered for well nigh a month, to allow my modifiers access to new relationships, to stretch new clauses across unfathomable spaces in galloping rhythms, avalanches of alliterative annunciations, and cavalcades of literary devices too numerous to, well, enumerate.
Thus, perhaps I had ought to pity you dear reader, or at least to have mercy and reign in my newly regained capacity, but only time will tell.*
*Apparently cliché too has returned.
There seems to have been what I can only describe as an inaudible buzzing in my brain obscuring my attempts to form sentences, paragraphs, and narratives to be transferred to the page, electronic or otherwise. Now I do not wish you to get the wrong idea here; I have not gone crazy or anything remotely close to that. I have not been swatting at the invisible insects that presumedly caused this inaudible buzzing; let us regard this soundless sound as more of a metaphor, a figurative something that stands in for the a certain buffering that seems to have been blocking the flow of words.
As you can see, I struggle to describe this loss of words within which I have been mired. It hasn’t been at all like a writer's block, or at least it has been unlike any incarnation of such a phenomenon that I have previously endured – and I have had many on both verbal and visual fronts. That inaudible buzz is the best way I can represent my inability to write, dear reader, and it has not so much been in my head, but around it, or perhaps just under the surface, interfering with the inward and outward flow of words, not entirely, but just enough of a signal disruption to render sentences – such as this one – unable to form. But that has changed, there is no longer the need for dirges and I may finally let the timpanists, cymbal crashers, and professional wailers return to their normal lives, because I have found my words.
Now, whether this is a good thing or not shall remain to be seen. Now that I have reclaimed my capacity to write I feel free to unleash ungodly grammars upon the world once again, to allow my sentences free range to compensate for the undue imprisonment they have suffered for well nigh a month, to allow my modifiers access to new relationships, to stretch new clauses across unfathomable spaces in galloping rhythms, avalanches of alliterative annunciations, and cavalcades of literary devices too numerous to, well, enumerate.Thus, perhaps I had ought to pity you dear reader, or at least to have mercy and reign in my newly regained capacity, but only time will tell.*
*Apparently cliché too has returned.
4 Comments:
This sounds a little familiar... I have been fighting what feels like a blankness for awhile now. It was particularly bad while I was in New York City, though I don't blame the city itself, more the timing and such.
Welcome back, 4"oE's words!
My words thank you.
Use your words, 4"oE -- use your words.
Perhaps you should have had Guest Bloggers write in your stead while your words had gone missing -- like when Joan Rivers guest hosted on The Tonight Show. "Can we write?"
For you, PSM, I would be happy to allow a guest contribution. Your words are like manna from heaven. In fact, we are all still awaiting that much sought after contribution regarding that wonderous character The Houseguest.
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