It isn’t so much that I have writer’s block, as it is that I am not able to pick a topic and stick to it. For instance, last weekend I wanted to write about the Out of the Darkness Walk sponsored by the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. I have done this walk for a decade now, and I have personally raised over $4,000 for suicide prevention. This year we walked as a team in my mother’s honor, a woman who worked in the mental health and addiction field for many years. I wore a backpack filled with sunflowers, and the kids came, along with my Aunt Mary and my dad and my sister. It was a beautiful day for a walk, and I was very happy at the end of it. But you see, that’s not much of a blog entry.
I could write about the witch things. On Sunday during the football game that I was sure we were going to win even though everyone else had their doubts, I travelled to the Irish Center for the Pagan Pride festival. I somehow managed to miss both the services room and the craft room, and ended up only browsing the vendor area. I was looking at some candles when all of a sudden a woman gently guided me into a circle of people and the next thing I knew I was doing a ritual. There was a very energetic priest of some kind who talked and prayed during this, and he came around to each person to share a moment with them. When he got to me, he asked what my name was and I told him, and he smiled the smile that all pagan people smile when they hear my name. He told me that in Voodoo they call her Mama Brigitte, and he asked me if I was a devotee. Of course, I replied, can you not tell? And he answered that he would not have asked had he not sort of known already. I wish I knew this man’s name, because the interaction we shared managed to stay with me throughout the day. Perhaps our paths will cross again. The next night I went to a witch market with Carey, which was really cool except for the fact that 2,000 people were there. I love learning about things through Facebook posts, but people do not seem to keep in mind that when you post on Facebook you could get 10 people or you could get 10,000 interested and then 2,000 show up. We made a round, and then left. I do wish it was in a bigger space because it could have been very cool. See, but that’s barely a story anyway.
Another current anecdote would be that I went to go fishing yesterday, and instead ended up talking to a Marine vet named Steve for an hour. I could tell you about his daughter in Florida who had a stroke, and I could tell you about when he was in Japan during the war and he got stuck there for a month because his boat forgot him and 20 other dudes. When he was finally rescued by the Navy, they asked him if there was anything he wanted to eat or drink when he got on the ship and his only reply was chocolate milk. All the other Marines got steaks and such, but here is Steve with his glass of chocolate milk. He was a really nice guy, and talking to him reminded me a lot of talking to my grandfather. When we got in the car, Mark said hey, doesn’t he remind you of Poppa? I like to think maybe it was Grandpa coming down and telling us an old story, but either way it was a nice exchange with an old man named Steve.
I could tell you about poetry night, where I arrived later than I usually do and ended up being the 17th reader. I could tell you I heard some beautiful verses, and I could tell you that it is the type of thing I wish I could do every night. I read three poems, one that I don’t love the way I used to anymore, but was handy. Another about fishing and dying that I’ve always thought was more of a reading and less of a performance piece. But then, I read The Difference, my poem about gender roles, and that one seemed to really hit. I have included the video below for you, because as I said in the beginning of this blog- I don’t know what to write about.
See, I told you some snippets and some anecdotes but it isn’t anything important. It isn’t anything I can expound upon, or maybe it is and I just am not able at this time. I saw a meme recently that read that it was okay for you to struggle with productivity during a prolonged crisis. I am not someone who can truly believe that statement. I do not believe it is okay for me to struggle with writer’s block, even if my rational brain knows that I have been in crisis mode for over a year. All I know is that I feel like my outlet has been stolen from me, and I am angry, and I am not feeling like I do enough to fight for it. I know I am wrong in my feelings, my logical brain resounding, telling me that I am enough. But does it matter? Does any of it matter when you are playing war with yourself?
So here, I am going to leave this poem here in my blog for you to enjoy because everyone else seem to enjoy it last night. At least I am getting out of my house and I am doing things and I am trying. Oh god, you know I am trying.
Ham 'N Eggs- by Brigid Hannon 