Over half way, just, stretching for 3/4’s, before realising one is yearning for some inspiration. It’s not that the insipid, random, banal thoughts that trail across your mind or which play themselves out in the sad reality of reality cannot be captured immortalised in text; nor is it solely the desire to please whilst questioning the agitated question: what did I write which gripped people’s attentions so much in the beginning?, but it’s the acute sense of fatigue. An interesting story scurries across the banner which laces the bottom of a T.V. screen and whispers: Pick me! Pick me! I can make them read your work! – but then the artist, the professional within that at times is bursting at the seams of the ossified cage which incarcerates your poet’s heart, journalist’s muscle, your spiritualist’s soul, flutters, murmurs, and beats that.little.bit. s.l.o.w.e……r…..
Oh the effort. Even reading Wikipedia has taken its toll. Scrounging through the back stories, the histories, the comments and complaints which give your writer’s eye an angle that happens to be more obtuse than acute, flinging up a dirty glaucoma induced film of mottled, milk grey, whose gloomy lining which hugs the edges of your pupil tells you it’s easier to sleep than to write. Easier to breathe than to find something that makes that brown inhaler seem more appetising in the morning.
Is it boredom? The very vogue Ennui of literary critics, modern and post artistes, students on long summer holidays? A lack of inspiration, or perhaps it’s the block of wood that regularly lodges itself into the brains of people who like words, and like conjuring them either on paper or dirty, smudged, grease printed LCD screens?
I think, to get the ball rolling, that lumpy slab of a London Plane Tree should be given a name.