A Little Essay While Running Away From The Trashed Psyche

I don’t suffer from the brilliant people’s writer’s block.

I get these swarms of self-hatred that swamp me and create an inactive Tonka toy, ready to rust and to be kicked.

Kicked so there are dents that won’t be repaired ever and whose cracks will submit themselves to the onslaught of rust fueled by the beads of moisture tickling up from the Jersey Street sandbox that never had the privilege of sun.

The loneliness in the dirty sand.

Writing is my therapy, but fear dunks my horrible lungs – What a silly fool.

A toad who can’t stand water.

I’d laugh, but I’m sick of being sick.

Exercise is therapy also, but do I use it?

I know myself as a bucket of shit, pardon the phrase.

Meditation, yes, you have it – therapeutic, but the good people, the beautiful people, the loving people suggest 20 minutes, and my storms conquer me and my mind will not crawl in the cotton for longer than three and a half minutes, five when stretched to my maximum after a long, tortuous day, spent as a salmon in a brown pond with no outlets.

Today at lunch, I saw three people in a continuous slideshow of three side by side by side events.

For a flash, I think I can write, but it lasts only seconds.

At the end of my drinking career, I hated being drunk for almost every moment of the ten to twelve hours per night, Every Night, but there were still those few seconds of each night that crawled gently around my collar and that felt okay like a smooth hug from someone who can save you, that felt like a solution to all of my problems.

I perpetuated the myth of solution into dark ages because I hated being sober so very strongly.

Now, I like my sobriety, but the solution is spoiled milk and miles away on a dry highway below sea level, and I can’t write a silly, shitty little poem about three humans who arrived in three sudden scenes, like flashes from god.

A gift smashes my brain with light and I can’t speak.

For a moment, I knew I could scream the loudest beauty at the walls of the world, but my brain locks as a broken chain on a bicycle and it hates me.

Yes, writing is therapeutic, so I did this little essay. I share it with you because I must let it go.

Tomorrow, I will write a poem.

It will be brilliant
and I won’t
throw it away
because right
when it is complete,
I’ll shut off my brain,
and I’ll sit still,
trying not to worry about how
I seem to be a black hole
in this lifetime, hanging
on those thin threads
that won’t leave
the new pants
I had worn into
the battles
of the Monday workplace.

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  1. #1 by Carl D'Agostino on July 9, 2012 - 10:51 pm

    “Now, I like my sobriety” – no matter what thoughts you have or ups or downs we are in the winner’s circle

    • #2 by Carl on July 15, 2012 - 6:00 pm

      Yes – Thank you for your comment. I don’t know what is wrong with the filter, and sorry for the delay in responding. We are in that good circle.

  2. #3 by Hawkruh on July 10, 2012 - 6:11 am

    For me,”Kicked so there are dents that won’t be repaired ever and whose cracks will submit themselves to the onslaught of rust fueled by the beads of moisture tickling up from the Jersey Street sandbox that never had the privilege of sun.”

    It’s what I do to myself… Or rather , I don’t know. But I loved the descriptiveness of this paragraph.

  3. #4 by artyelf on July 10, 2012 - 6:15 am

    I like this, I think your block is moving.

    • #5 by Carl on July 10, 2012 - 8:55 pm

      Thank you for your comment. The blocks are heavy but not impossible.

  4. #6 by stillight on July 10, 2012 - 7:42 am

    I’ve been there so many times, rusting in that damn sandbox and think I may be there now, but loved how you put this to words. It’s very true to the feelings of an Artist. Great piece, Carl! If this is writer’s block or feels like it, I have to remember that (like you stated) writing for me is an outlet, a way of expressing whatevers going on inside of me. Sometimes I think when I can’t find the words it’s because I’m not listening or allowing what’s brewing on the inside to come out – maybe. It’s a thought anyway. Ever read ‘The War On Art?’ One of my all time favorite books – changed the way I approached my art completely.

    • #7 by Carl on July 10, 2012 - 9:03 pm

      Thank you so much for your visit and your comment. I appreciate it, and I’ve taken your recommendation on The War of Art. I’ll keep you posted on that. You’re right that most of my block problems come from not listening – My day job teaches me a different kind of listening and the two are quite different!

  5. #8 by claudia on July 10, 2012 - 12:10 pm

    writing is therapy for sure.. couldn’t agree more..and it doesn’t have to be brilliant…just real…just saying..

    • #9 by Carl on July 10, 2012 - 9:04 pm

      Claudia, you are brilliant! But you’re right, real and honest is all we need!

    • #10 by stillight on July 13, 2012 - 9:58 am

      If you do pick it up (The War of Art), would love to hear your thoughts, Carl.

  6. #11 by Evelyn on July 14, 2012 - 8:59 pm

    love the combination of prose and poetry, I like that you just let yourself write and write and I LOVE LOVE that you said you are brilliant. Because you are.

    • #12 by Carl on July 15, 2012 - 5:49 pm

      Ha Ha! I said it was going to be brilliant tomorrow, but that tomorrow never arrives! Thanks for commenting. I did let go a bit on this one.

  7. #13 by clinock on July 16, 2012 - 3:17 am

    I’m with you man – every step of the way…

    • #14 by Carl on July 16, 2012 - 10:03 pm

      I was hoping I was not all by myself on this one. I appreciate your comment.

  8. #15 by Carl D'Agostino on August 5, 2012 - 6:35 am

    “…the Jersey Street sandbox that never had the privilege of sun. ” Upon second read this caught my eye. Meaningful urban metaphor for so much of life that may never come to fruition.

    • #16 by Carl on August 6, 2012 - 11:36 pm

      Oh, yes, now you have me going further down the path!!

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