Saturday, October 26, 2019

Working title

I have not been able to write. This is a deliberate, self-conscious, willful attempt to force, cajole, entice, inveigle, prime myself back into some semblance of discipline, practice, habit. If it seems forced, contrived, pedantic, labored, it is. Sure, writer's block is an occupational hazard that comes with the territory. In my case, despite having four ongoing unfinished projects, i have not written in three years, not since i left Thailand, not for all the time i've been in Portugal.

I keep finding excuses: it's cold, my sinusitis, dry cough, plumbing problems, bureaucratic obligations, the cats, cooking... Or i distract myself with social media, Wikipedia edits, translations, Facebook group posts and calendar. Well, the posts kinda count, i tell myself, as they constitute a substantial digital trail, much of it original content.

After three years of non-production, i had to pull myself up short to examine just what is operating. At first, i was demoralized by 2 computer crashes in which i lost files which had not been backed up. I could not bear the thought of going back to rewrite what i had struggled to set down. There would be the frustration of remembering what, how i wrote, of re-conjuring particular turns of phrase wrested from the ether; the fear of leaving out something of import i had already included, of having to re-research, re-reconstruct. And i hate nothing worse than having to do things over. Which is why i hate cleaning; as soon as you are done, you have do it all over again.

The problem is existential.

In the earth crisis that is upon us, what does it matter that i write or what i write? Human survivors will be doing just that, staying alive, holding on to what is left of culture and civilization, making do with the remnants, having to improvise, to adapt to degraded conditions. No one will be interested or concerned with the memoirs of a 20th century Chinese-Jamaican activist, his poetry, or his philosophical musings on epistemology. His idea for a new economic paradigm is absolutely germane, but of not much help after the fact of global meltdown. Besides, that is already spelt out, awaiting refinement, development and implementation.

I have not ego enough to push through with these projects to become artifacts of a golden age, happened upon by some future scholar bent on escaping into the past, rather than treating with the post-apocalyptic present. 



This time i've run out of excuses. I moved into a cozy, romantic garret, perfect writer's retreat, tucked away in a delightful area, long enough now to be settled. Sure, i can complain about the plumbing, but that is par for the course in older Lisbon housing. But there is food in the fridge, dark chocolate brownies are cooling on the kitchen counter, and Patra is curled up comfortably on the couch.


Even if there is nothing i or anyone can do in the face of our collective doom, not Greta Thunberg as she readily admits, rather than be demotivated, demoralized, and immobilized into impotence, i may as well live the best i can, as much as i can, as long as i can.

I am writing. I have written.