Thursday, May 28, 2009

I’ve done Marconi proud in the past month, I believe, with a piss-poor posting schedule that’s created a kind of modern telegraph. Thought. Stop. Thought. Stop. Thought. And if I settle down, listen carefully, I can hear him tapping from beyond the grave in Morse code: Yo. Stop. Pony up. Stop. Get your act together. To this advice I fully subscribe, pledging to embrace consistency in the coming month, or as much consistency as you can expect twice a week.

About once a year, a deep ennui seizes me, rendering everything the most boring shade of gray. It’s not that I’m particularly unhappy, nor would I describe it as burnout, because that usually can be narrowed down to a specific reason. No, it’s pervasive. Seeps into all corners. It’s a steady flatline a notch or two below zero.

Certainly the goal is to escape the funk, but I’ve yet to find an instant remedy. Ideally I would be able to curl up under a table, really Rip Van Winkle this shit, and wake up to a completely different era. That’s not going to happen, obviously, so my next inclination is to turn inward. Seek out solitude. Reboot myself, in a way. Refresh. Renew.