Mirage

I've decided to come to terms with the idea that I have the wonderfully cynical view that my life has become something of a desert. Yes, in the middle of frigid, snow-covered Carlisle, PA I'm thinking of the achingly hot sand, boiling sun, and waves of torturous heat stretching to the horizon. So, no there isn't a nostalgic smile of warmth on my face when considering these thoughts. But as much as I hate the sun and the sand and the heat; I expect it. This is, after all, the desert. It's pretty transparent about the whole sand thing. The part that really gets me are the oases, or seeming oases, these phantoms of relief. Because what could be worse than reaching for cool water only to grab a handful of scalding sand.

After spending a good amount of time here in the desert you even come to expect these mirages. And, one would assume, with this expectation comes the loss of genuine hope. Oddly, this is not really the case. With every distant glimmer, every sparkling drop of this apparition is a fundamental, primal hope that stirs in my chest. In the most recognized place of hopelessness there still lives in me the elevated heart beat of hope that yearns for "This time, this time for sure it is real." Only to come of no avail. So the question is, when does this unceasing hope lose itself and become only crazed desperation? Am I yet a wild man staggering through the desert with outstretched arms plunging into the sand around him, searching for what is not there, what will never be there? I pray that there be something other than desperation, but with every mirage it seems unlikely. At the sight of clear refreshment I dive in, with hope perhaps, but probably desperation beating in my chest. With every glance, every step "This time , this time for sure" my heart beats, as my mind already knows "Not this one, there is no water." And so I walk endless in sun and sand, parched and waiting, hoping without hope.

What We Write About When We Write About Nothing

For some of you newer followers it may come as a bit of a surprise to you to know that I am linguistically challenged. I am not a good writer, and writing is a hard process for me. For those of you who have been reading this blog for a while, I'm sure you're all thinking to yourselves, "well at least he knows." (Thanks for hanging in there anyway). It's an endless battle for me, and even harder when I can't even think of something to write about. There is sage advice that has always been given to me when this occurs. It goes something like, "When you have writer's block the best thing to do is write about how you have nothing to write about." I haven't written here in a while because I couldn't think of anything worth writing; so, I'm following the advice of the many writers who have come before me. I've actually practiced this exercise a number of times before. This would seem to suggest that I'm pretty good at writing about nothing, that I know the ins and outs of how to get around writer's block and come up with some words of meaning, but that's not really the case. Writing about nothing has a new definition for me every time I try it, and somehow none of those definitions are 'something' of substance.

Learning how to writing about nothing for me is like trying to understand a black hole--its vacuous. Perhaps this is a part of why I'm not a great writer. Writers can make nothing look like something, but, in a sense, this is just what I do. It's avoiding the writing prompt; it's not writing about nothing, it's turning nothing into something else and getting away from the problem completely. These writers (and myself) do not know 'nothing' they fear it endlessly. True writers are capable of turning something into nothing. These men and women understand what 'nothing' really means; they know the black hole; they never have true writer's block. It is the craftsman who can turn a phrase and make characters that are so real, so personal that the words disappear, they become nothing and the story is no longer writing, but something deeper. I envy those who can turn something into nothing, who make words disappear before my very eyes. I want to know the black hole and not fear it.