I have seen many movies representing writers so distant and sullen, with a stiff drink in hand and an unkempt appearance. I'm not much of a writer, yet I have been feeling that way. Milling over stagnant thoughts looking for inspiration to make the next manifestation flow forth from the depths of some dark mysterious universal source like a radiant chthonic hologram that oozes rather then shines through the minds eye. All the while tuning out the ticking time, objects, staged actions that other people are so wrapped up in they believe its is a pure reality without question.
I have to question, everything, all the time. A myth or metaphor might bring you closer but at some point you have to feel and experience the truth. At first it's scary, perhaps bitter, sadness can pervade ones mood in the early stages of lifting the veil... Then it's a quick slide into madness, perhaps a feeling of frenzy. That's when the self medication comes in. Lubricating the channel from subconscious to the hands, perhaps bypassing the filters of conditioning of appropriateness, of the politically correct. By any means necessary.
As I sip my wine, not really taking into account why the fermented fruits of mother earth should have such an effect on our processing of her mysteries, I still do no think of myself as a writer. I do however realize that when the spirits are flowing, the words begin to develop shape around the intangible, the indescribable, that feeling that lurches and twitches inside. The gasp for air, and the drive that carries you through the worst pains and the roughest days. Our carelessly forgotten collective exhalation.
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