Perforation Problems

It's raining today, the kind of rain that makes you understand why people use the word "downpour." I've got the back door open to the smells and sounds, even though water's starting to speckle the floor inside the screen and I know Michael would close it, if he were here. Sometimes it's nice to feel like you're in the middle of a rainstorm. When we were young my parents would take us out on the front porch to watch the rain, to count the seconds between lighting and thunder. I loved it, being surrounded by the storm and yet (mostly) safe under our house's roof. Clyde has disappeared – I finally find him at the top of the stairs, where it's quieter. I sit down next to him and he rolls over so I can pet his belly. He's kept close to me the last couple of days. We're not following our normal schedule. It puts him on edge. Last night he kept staring at me and wagging his tail. "What? You already had dinner." Ears perk up. Slap, ...

 Sometimes when I sit down to write I feel like my body is wound tight, like all the doorways that should be open to creative thought are sealed shut. My brain refuses to engage in the kind of thinking I need – the abstract, reflective, slow & ponderous, weighty, wonder-of-words contemplation that sucks you into each moment and holds you there so you can ignore everything else going on around you. Instead I'm flitting around spasmodically from thought to thought to thought, anxiety to anxiety to anxiety. I just can't. sit. still. Mentally. It seems like writing ideas always come to me when I'm in the middle of something else, when I couldn't possibly stop and write. Maybe that's because I'm not stressing out about writing at that moment – there's no pressure. My head is relaxed. Whatever. I think I maybe need to accept that I'm failing at writing. And it's entirely my own fault. Am I going to do something about it? Or am I going to give in, ...