It's a rather disjointed day, what with the sun blazing like Love itself overhead and every green thing growing so fast you can almost hear it, and every thing that crawls or flies or burrows or sings or runs or talks or barks or purrs or swims or that just moseys from here to there amid all those bright Spring colors. It's all disjointed because here I am basking in all that Life and I am utterly perplexed, bewildered and snarled up from the inside out.
I can give a name to all these joyous and marvelous things so abundant all about me - but in my head and in my thoughts, something else is moseying about, something I can't really name at all. As a constant writer, such a lacking is deeply uncomfortable.
In this wee digital space I've made with this blog, and even in those long-ago times when I scratched across some bit of actual paper with a pen or pencil, I do the one thing I've always done: I write.
I happened across a proverb today which says "Any day you can wake up and put on your pants is a good day." That seems to set a notably low bar for a good day, though if one were unable to a) wake up, b) dress themselves, c) have any clothes or bed or to even experience a period of sleep, then the elements of the proverb might seem rich beyond measure.
I spoke with a friend today and he mentioned I might perhaps have some kind of 'writer's arthritis' or something. Maybe so. Maybe it's a stiffness, a lack of flexibility or something minor.
If -- or perhaps I should say "when" - someone tells me I am a bad writer, I think to myself (with no humility) "oooh, he called me a writer."
Or as Kurt Vonnegut Jr. once wrote: "The primary benefit of practicing any art, whether well or badly, is that it enables one's soul to grow."
So maybe it's just Springtime in my writing mind and who knows what might grow from it?