Yawn, Sigh, Ugh

So, I still have dope kicking around. This is terrible. I'm sure I'm going to have a Lord of the Flies "Kill the pig! Spill its blood!" moment any minute now or something. I feel very dramatic, anyhow.

Trust me, the novelty of actually being stupid will wear off soon enough. It's a phase, a crutch. Whatever.

To tell you the truth, I'm hoping for a creative breakthrough or something. I'm in a rut. Oh, how I hate this. You know what it is? I'm the fleshy, real-life version of my scooter woes. The spark plug kept unscrewing because the stupid mechanic doesn't understand torque, and while that's now fixed, the distributor cap keeps slipping off and I lose power or lose fire altogether. Now, in my brilliance, I have solved this problem with duct tape.

I'm not so sure I'm likening the dope to the duct tape, as I really don't wish to dabble in adhesives, but the allusion was more geared to the "potential of fire is there, but it just keeps slipping away" poetic image.

I find it really frustrating to experience any kind of creative block. It's why I'm generating so much sub-par crap right now. The fact is, I need to write, and if I don't do it for an audience, I won't do it. I don't want to be that alone with my thoughts that I write for myself right now. The darkness ain't so gone that it ain't still nigh, you know? It was a rough week, and there's none of my goodness written in stone just yet. It -- no, I am so vulnerable. I do not wear vulnerability well. I fear it is not my shade.

So, I write for an audience, and then I have to temper it, not get quite so raw and unrestrained. I don't like finding too much truth in what I say during these more difficult times.

I've actually never been able to write through adversity, and perhaps that's why I feel so desperate to do it now. Must. Write. Must! Can't? Gah.

So, yes, again with the redundancies. That has to do with the dope, I suppose. Writer's block, for me, is like a math problem. It's a matter of understanding the variables and hard work. If I just keep pushing, pushing, then it should hit, right? It's probability, likelihood. It's practically a fucking mathematic certainty, for god's sake.

But it's like nothing I do lets me outside of my mental four walls.

I just keep bouncing the fuck back onto myself, the same redundant shit. Time after time. It's been a while now, about a month or so, since I've felt at all on my game. If not two. It's been increasingly frustrating for me, but I've not talked about it like I probably should. Sometimes I just don't get too conscious of the support I'm supposed to have around me. I don't ask, they don't tell, or something.

So, this is frustrating. Writing. Sigh. I'm hoping that getting stupid, doing a little dope, will break the mental rut. I'll tell you what, though, I don't have the patience for dope anymore. I'll probably kill the rest over the weekend, and by then I'll have had a few cool experiences, I think, that might also loosen up the cerebral jam.

I've got a concert, a social thingie thing, had a drink with someone new tonight, have a party Friday, that sort of thing. None of it's stellar stuff that has me light and fluffy inside, but it's a pretty solid week of reliable things to do, you know? The gig'll be good, as usual, but it'll be different from before, when we discovered the guy. Then, he was doing covers. He'd blow out a tearing version of Gomez's Get Miles, or slay his way through a Dick Dale faithful. He made a good cover of Britney Spears. He's got so much colour and style as a covers dude, so I hate the fact that he's gotten all serious "I must sell my records now, My Minions," and will only do original work now. Gah, I'd fucking kill to hear Get Miles again, man.

Tomorrow, cycling. Fuck it. Nothing, no one, nobody, no interruptions, no excuses. Just a bike ride to work, work, then a ride around Stanley Park and home. I need the change of scene. Sun, GOOD.

It promises to be a good night to buy a bit of wine and have a quality me-n-you writing night, don'tcha think, my minions?