Who understands the mysteries of an unstable brain? Yesterday, and for a few days previously, despairing yet again, I gave up writing. I imagined myself throwing my consciousness into meditation 4 hours a day, becoming an ever-giving spirit. I imagined myself turning into a smiling Dalai Lama. I dreamed of becoming such a love-filled personage that I shit sweet-smelling begonias ten times a day. That's right! It wouldn't stink. Oh, it was a marvelous dream, filled with pain and wonderful highs after days of suffering. Then, today, I woke up, perfectly contented, and returned to work on the Manning novel as if there had been no yesterday and will be no tomorrow.
I have no idea where my moods come from. Brooding thoughts of my mortality accompanied the writer's block. Negative thoughts about what a horrible husband, son, stepson, father, worker, intellect and friend I am. I don't know whether the negative thoughts produced the writer's block or whether the writer's block produced the negative thoughts. They come and go like ghosts in the outhouse on a cold winter's night in Southern Ohio or coastal Alabama. Much like the capricious moments that drive the newly sober Florida alcoholic to go back to searching for the elixir of life in the Fontainebleau of Life.
Keep writing, George. I am still working on your books of poetry, and the writing is superb. Don't give in to those negative thoughts.
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