Today someone asked me about my block. Where I think it came from, or what it consists of. I had, earlier that day, realised what it was, but I didn't tell her, and I acted like I would have done before I realised. I was embarrassed.
The fact is, though my anxiety may be more obscure in its origins, my block is fairly obvious. I am distracted, and trying to get away from the fact that I am distracted. I don't want to admit it,
Suddenly, like cockroaches under light, like bleach through a sink, the block clears. I am writing already, what I intended to write many days before. It is clumsy, filled still with chunks of the block, the current still uneven and dysphoric... but it is writing. I am writing. Writing am I. I can only write myself. My CEP cannot avoid being about my CEP, or it fails (like any). The title: SAVAGE PICTURES/DISTRACTIONS.
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