fits of creativity

I can get out about a paragraph, bringing myself right to the point where the climax or punchline should be reached - then fizzle. You know those parties where your husband fills so many balloons with helium that the hanging strings actually obscure the view across the room? You know the resultant balloon hissing madness when six kids get to those balloons right before the party starts? That's kind of how my blog writing is going right now.

I can't even seem to hold my own interest for more than a few minutes, so how can I expect to write anything with humor or depth?

Should I continue the ankle saga? Should I discuss the space-age miracle foam mattress pad which is at least 6 inches narrower than the bed (and the resultant comedy)? Should I get out some of the rare bits of passion concerning politics and religion (shhhh, don't mention the war)?

When I was a child, I ran freely across the snow-covered playground. I didn't see the ice under the surface. I didn't expect to come crashing into the seesaw, propelling it downward, thus lacerating my chin and causing me to bite the tip off my tongue. Mouths bleed a lot.

Creatively speaking, I keep hitting ice patches. Doors are opening inside me because, for so long, I have not allowed myself to touch the deeper insides. It excites me a little to feel, but it scares me too. I don't just feel for me.

Whirlpool

Piercing -
can’t anyone else hear the screams?
Grasping -
fingernails scratch-searching for a hold -
falling.

The people go on
buying
their new and improved,
bigger,
better,
self-improvement
foods, ointments, cars, homes.

And the lost fall
screaming
to the ground,
invisible,
inaudible,
alone.

(1994)