I can’t write.  I’ve been trying to write for the past two hours, something in the realm of “very short fiction”, no more than 3,000 words, but nothing comes.  Well, that’s not true.  Stuff comes, but it’s shit.  I can’t articulate the softness welling in my heart.

I just read two novellas on the intoxicating elixir of attraction.  Both wove the ethereal with the visceral; the pangs of the figurative heart intermingled with the pulse of blood beneath the quivering flesh of the beholder.  It seemed a logical choice: write something about beauty, something about appreciation, something about the reverence attached to the human form.  Attraction is no stranger to me; I’ve fallen in lust more times than I could recall.  If I started counting now I would expire before coming anywhere close to a conclusive figure.  Have I not remarked the way a strand of hair floats in the wake of a statuary figure slicing through space?  Have I not been mesmerized by the bob and bounce of a ponytail at half-gait, of the subtle rise and fall of breasts on a moving body?  How often have I sat transfixed at the otherworldly placidity a face takes on in repose?  Did I not write an entire poem about the small sliver of skin visible between a reclining goddess’ shirt-tail and belt line?

And yet I have nothing.  I can’t wrestle the sublime from my otherwise engaged mind, askew as it is with bad music, overbearing white noise, and the stress of a life half-lived.  I can’t turn off the world and all its ugly clamor to give the beguiling smile I hide in my mind the life it so deserves on the page.  I long to share with the world the way beauty stirs me; to give them through my words what could only be hinted upon by the way She looks in pictures.

I can’t show them what it is to fall in love with a face, an imagined voice; the way an admirer can create an entire backstory for his or her beloved.  How an observer can perchance a flurry of the hand, an uninhibited laugh, a stretch of the calf and foot, and expostulate the creature’s deeper passions for music, food, culture, even their strongly held belief in the afterlife or lack thereof.

At least not yet.  I’ll keep trying.  In the meantime…

Who gives a fuck?  I found my Lovely Lady Luck and I’m getting married in 78 days!!!!  The first wave of invitations have been sent, second meeting with the caterers arranged, and preparations for transportation underway.  This shit is happening, y’all!!!

Now I just need to get published, which means I need to get writing, which means I need to get off work.  I think I’ll do that now.