It’s been so long since I’ve last written. I’m afraid that I’ve permanently lost it, whatever that “it” may signify. I come back to my previous work and I assume the worst, that I can no longer write like I used to. The metaphors, the multis, the clarity of theme and point—they all escape me, they’re all so far out of reach right now. Just a few months ago I felt like I could dance from letter to letter, word to word, climb up and down the spaces in between like I was inventing a new way to play Chutes and Ladders. Not to say that the writing was ever easy, but that my command of the pencil was so goddamn good that it stopped mattering if the actual writing was easy or not. But that was then. Now I feel like I’m writing with a fucking log, lugging, dragging this shit around the open canvas, just trying to hold it up long enough to close out the “O” in my last name.
My last post of any worth was an unpublished anti-feminism commentary piece about this chick who blew 20-plus guys in a single night in Magaluf. That was July. It is now mid-October. This is the longest I have gone without producing something since I announced to the world that I am a writer.
Maybe it’s because my mind is elsewhere. In recent months I’ve stopped caring about writing. My mind is preoccupied with other things, mostly with fucking around, wasting life, enjoying what little time I have left in Taiwan before returning to the States.
I spend a lot of time with my girlfriend, too much time. (We’ve been living together since February, but that all comes to an end soon. She is going back to Japan for good at the end of this month.) I rarely go out anymore and if I do, it’s usually with the girlfriend, so in the truest sense of the phrase, it isn’t really going out so much as it is being out—safely, redudantly, boringly. I teach just enough to scrape by. I stopped studying Chinese formally in May. Consequently, my Chinese is terrible and my confidence in speaking aloud is all but shot. I say I’ve put my writing on hold to concentrate more on business, namely commercial real estate, but besides the occasional business article read, I’m doing jack shit.
The only area in which I’m busting my ass day-in-day-out is fitness. I lift four days a week. I buy protein powder. Creatine powder. I count carbs and calories. I weigh myself every single day. I stopped drinking beer. I stopped eating sweets. I started cooking. I plan my food one, two, sometimes even three meals in advance. I look at myself in the mirror more than Bruce Lee in Enter the Dragon. I go on YouTube and watch countless exercise instructional videos to improve on my regimen. I haven’t “liked” anything on Facebook for years but I readily “like” the pages of both Ulisses Jr. and Lazar Angelov. I think about weightlifting before I go to bed, and sometimes I get so excited about the next day’s lift that I can’t bring myself to sleep.
And that’s about all I can come up with to write about tonight.
This post had no link, no continuity.
Baby steps, I think.