bricks

Winter is here. With the change in weather, I have also experienced a change in the way my neurons fire. The ease with which electrical impulses flowed to excite my left hemisphere, the ability for acetylcholine to be released at my neuromuscular junction, for signal tranduction to become mechanic production to become artistic induction is nullified; the Hebbian synapse learns to unlearn. I lamented this to M. the other day in that when I am faced with a blank slate in front of me, I cannot articulate what I mean to say

To put it in layman’s, I have writer’s block.



It’s not that I don’t feel creative, rather I am bursting at the seams with things I want to write about. I just watched Amélie and Scott Pilgrim and The Pianist and all I can think of is art and expression. I attempt to watch movies to veg out but instead these moving pictures grow like lush vegetation in my mind. I visit a friend who has a new painting and I am filled with emerald jealousy. Clips on YouTube taunt me with their musical paeans. I am driven mad by these civilians excreting their passions into the world as I stand helplessly by, disabled and silent.

Until I am able to create, this incessant, infernal racket in my head will continue to annoy me so. It simmers and swirls - verbal ascites, artistic neuralgia. Be gone, so that I may relax.

Please.

***



Aujourd’hui,
Je pense.

Un jour, á la Canal Saint-Marin,
Tu et moi vais jeter des pierres,
Commes les enfants que nous sommes.

Un jour...