Squandered Silence
Half alive in the middle of nowhere,
playing solitaire on blank canvas,
drowning in cacophony of noise,
aching to find puzzle piece.
Steam hisses angst in streams -
not human, not part of the world,
measured by money and graft.
Is anyone listening to my quest
for meaning of squandered silence?
Dead empty eyes pretend to be
embodiment of real person, slithering
in decayed world without compass
on a wacky train to vertigo heights.
Reality stretches between my fingers
as villains abound in stars of
ruthless dreams – psychotic anarchy.
I wear perplexity on a chain,
trying to reconstruct my humanity.
I was human once – all that matters
is the tickle of feather dusters
awakening renewal of hope,
ridding bruises and draining blood,
stimulating new growth reaching for sun.
My pith melts and once again, births
my human heart, opening life’s lid
allowing soul to live once more.
Advice for Those Stuck in Sandstorms
The problem we love to call writers' block has little to do with writing itself. A stuck writer can scrawl words on the page—or stroke their keyboard—for hours on end; spewing, reciting, and recounting, they can continue, tendons sprained, batteries dying, and fingers blackened. But, if writers merely announce their every thought on whim, they will not receive any fame save the scorn of their peers or, perhaps, a presidential nomination.
Writers can write so long as they are physically able and can think. (And while most writers I know possess such a frail constitution that they can just barely carry a laptop, they can certainly think.) The real challenge faced by writers is one that most everyone faces: the problem of choosing amid a nearly infinite number of choices.
Water vapor naturally groups into clouds, forming beautiful, light landscapes, but thoughts—the molecules of our consciousness—swirl about sharply and without clear form. The mind is more like a storm than a picturesque sky. In life, thoughts and choices abound, but trying to resolve the problems of which commute to take, which cute girl or guy to pursue, or how to write your conclusion are like trying to build a sand castle in a sandstorm.
For those stuck in the sandstorm of their own thoughts, I offer a pint of encouragement and a thimble of advice:
My experience with writers has been that no matter how stuck, they rarely miss a deadline. Whether through drive, a spark of genius, manipulating physics, or deus ex machina, their thoughts eventually manifest in time and often into something quite good. A friend in college once tried to pull an all-nighter into an 8 AM deadline, but he fell asleep somewhere along the way and awoke, panicking, at 2 that afternoon. Yet, lo! Though he couldn't remember, he'd submitted the paper on time and did well on it. The thought I'll get my shit together always rings clearly in my mind while I research and write, and it has worked so far.
But my bleeding heart optimism may not be to everyone's taste, so, here's my advice: remember that your artist problems—whether in writing, visual art, or musical composition—are not unlike those in more straightforward areas of life.
James Blachowicz wrote in a July 4 New York Times op-ed about the scientific method that "there is no distinctly scientific method," because many philosophers and poets use similar frameworks in their work. The reverse is true: few problems are exclusive to the academic-style humanities. Music is math. Dance is biology. Writing is courtship. So, when you're stuck in the chaotic sandstorm of your thoughts, screaming into the wind, you should perhaps—if you'll forgive the cliché—think outside the box. Bringing in thoughts from outside areas you know well—sports, logic, romance, science, etc.—can smooth your work along and frequently reinvigorates it.
Though if you are stuck in an actual sandstorm... Good luck.
