the role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say

    Anaïs Nin, I think, had the right idea.
    I've been struggling to write for the last few weeks. Not just here, but anywhere, in any way: email, letters, even basic work requirements. I don't know where it starts, but it's oddly (and sort of hilariously) easy to explain now: I'm blocked because I'm full. There's so much churning around in my brain that I can't get any of it out, like trying to squeeze pudding through a syringe. For the blog, at least, it's as if what I want to write is sitting, fully-formed, in my head, just waiting to be transcribed, much like it felt when I was writing my [M.A.] thesis. Topics include:

• "the situation in Wisconsin" and my personal response
• a brief review/analysis of The Science of Kissing: What Our Lips Are Telling Us, and an explanation (?) of how it relates to Cassette From My Ex: Stories and Soundtracks of Lost Loves and The Animal-Brained Attorney.
• I'm growing a pineapple!
• [photos from trips to Lawrence, Kansas]--should I ever be able to locate such a thing--with accompanying text revealing some of its many hidden treasures
• the car thing
• the dream I had about The Enigmatic Nephew, wrestling slimy sea creatures out of the kitchen drain of the house that we were renting...together...(no, not like that)--sigh.

Instead, I'm closing with someone else's words, in art, saying all that I can't--today.