So Many Nodeshells, So Little Time

Writer's block came calling about three weeks ago, and has overstayed his welcome. He raids my refrigerator regularly. He has poor bathroom habits (can't he at least use a tissue to remove those bits of toothpaste from my sink?). And he snores. Worst of all, he's deviously brilliant at finding ways to hinder any effort I might make to express myself creatively.

Practice my singing? He breaks a faucet.

Photoshop some images for friends? He demands that his laundry be done ("And don't forget to {wait to} put Downy in the rinse cycle - those dryer sheets give me hives!!")

Plan to prepare a lovely, exotic repast? My time is consumed steering a cart around the local supermarket, not seeking rare seasonings or the finest seasonal produce, no. I walk about listlessly, shopping for junk food for him. About this I should not complain, though. I hereby admit that I have partaken of a few bits of pepperoni, potato chips and even a cupcake or two from his stash.

The biggest problem he causes is this. There are a few folks on this site I respect who've asked for more writeups. It would make me happy to no end to fill the nodeshells and/or topics that they've listed. And then, of course, there's my own list, which seems to grow exponentially every time I actually put pen to paper (or fingertips to keyboard) and get down to the nitty-gritty.

Well, the answer came to me this morning. I locked him in the closet. Oh, revenge so sweet! The old Hoover in there is so full of dust that he's sneezing up a storm. His plaintive cries of "I'm afraid of the dark!" fall on deaf ears. My favorite moment was when he complained he had nothing to do. I suggested that he experiment with his female side and try on one of the two dozen or so pairs of shoes my wife has in there. And I left the house promptly to go to work.

So here it is, a daylog, a bagatelle; yet it's writing of some sort. Well, guess what? These few paragraphs took over three hours to craft.

Why? There are more like him. And they're pissed off that one of their own is languishing in my downstairs closet.


It's 9 pm and I'm driving down a dark Arizona highway. Is anyone really suprised that I'm running, running at 80 miles per hour and 3100 rpms and a half tank of gas, running from something?

I can't take it anymore. I hate walking past that tiny little apartment on Ivy Street, where all I had in the bedroom was an old boxspring, a cheap mattress, and you, and that was okay. I hate driving by that beach, where we used to screw in the front seat of my car and you'd whisper sweet nothings in my ear. Remember when you promised to believe in me, even when I stopped believing in myself?

I can't stand being so close to you, knowing that being with you was the last time I felt at home, knowing that you're just up the street, a right at the gate and then park at the end of the hill. I still remember the way. I wish I hadn't seen you Sunday night. I actually fell asleep with you in my arms, fell asleep for the first time in months, and now I'm back to not sleeping at all. It's because you're not next to me.

I sincerely wish to get my heart broken somewhere new, so I can leave those memories behind in another state when I come back and never have to think of them again.

Yeah, I'm running. If it seems like I left town in a hurry, without telling anyone and without leaving a forwarding address, well...

That's because I did.

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