Pap Just Is

I was on the other side of the porch

as my grandfather,

                         Pap...

was painting the railing 

a deep cherry 

stain.

His brush strokes 

following a gentle

up

and 

down

like a septuagenarian 

Karate Kid. 

Then,

he pauses

and moves down

a few rails.

Leaving two

unpainted.

I moved in closer

and inspected.

Sitting in between the two rails

was a grasshopper.

                              Young grasshopper...

Sitting and watching.

"Hey there fella,"

Pap said.

The grasshopper said nothing.

It just sat 

and watched.

When Pap reached the end of the railing,

he stood in front of unpainted portion

and waited

in silence.

The wind picked up

and the air felt good.

It was spring

and 72 degrees

on the outskirts of Lebanon, Pennsylvania. 

When the wind died down,

the grasshoppers jumped, 

and fluttered back into the field.

Then Pap picked up his brush,

and finished painting.

"He was awful curious,"

said Pap.

"Can't blame a fella for wanting to know

what the old timer is up to."

As I looked out at the waving blades of grass

in the field,

I saw no trace 

of the curious guest.

And,

a few minutes later,

the rails all looked the same.

The Block

The mental block. Wow. What a killer.

I've been editing a lot for my latest project, but even though I've been hard at work there is still this sharp grinding of the rusty cogs of my mental state.

I haven't been creating. The one thing that makes me... me.

When I can't write, I can't function. I just feel like I'm fucking melting.

I had to generate this blog post today. I had to do something to shake off this existential dread. It is in no way, shape, or form a cry for help. Think of it more as an emotional dumping site. A place where I can turn my head upside-down and get this out.

I chose to just "write words" for this one. I don't want to get into politics, or introduce any topics that typically shake things up. I'm breathing now.

It is humorous how crippling this is. I can't handle my day job whilst coping. I can't talk to my wife. I can't talk to my friends. I ignore the dog and I don't want to go anywhere. I also don't drink alcohol or eat a lot when I'm all blocked up.

I don't celebrate or sing of myself.

I just stare at a blank page.

The way I ease back in is through light exercise, I step outside for fresh air, and a mental dump (this).

See. It didn't take that long and already I'm starting to feel better. Writers are a funny sort of lot, aren't they?

Yep.

~Torres



P.S. I'm not editing this shit today. Human nature is doused in error.