Sometimes a girl runs out of words.
Sometimes there’s nothing to say. Nothing of any great weight or consequence, anyway. But here I am, fingers to the letters. Spelling out nothing with the most diligent attention.
I suppose it’s better than filling up space with one of those inane surveys that litter the myspace sites, spilling pointless secrets to perfect strangers, like the color of my current underwear (black) or whether or not I have a crush on someone in my Top 8. (not)
Or I could pass the time by making a laundry list of what I did on my weekend (chopped off my hair, smeared paint on my toes–or, more accurately, paid people to do both of those things for me–walked the dog, washed Boy’s jeans).
Usually I refuse to post a word unless I actually have Something to say. Today I’m just writing to see if there’s anything in there, anything that will rise to the surface and surprise me.
…I’ve got nothing.
Yesterday at 5:30 a.m. I was feeling incredibly inspired. The two Ms and I had crawled out of bed while it was still dark outside so we could shoot a cinepoem out in the bay and catch the sunrise. It was a good plan, but the fog rolled in overnight and there was no sunrise to be seen…just a faint pinkish haze as the fog went from greyish-black to greyish-blue.
But it was inspiring, nonetheless. Nobody out but the fishermen and the birds. Beadlets of fog collecting on our eyelashes and pushing our hair to new puffy extremes. Waves splashing like a heartbeat against algae-covered green rocks. Little red crab-creatures scuttling sideways from crevice to crevice. It was all so perfectly peaceful and, although it didn’t look exactly the way we hoped it would with the lack of brightening sunrise and all, it was just as magnificent in its own way, with muted foggy colors and a wet morning silence lying heavy over our whole little world.
Yes, I could have written a novel, yesterday.
But today there is no fog (which means there was probably a glorious sunny show at 6 a.m.). There are no crabs, save the office variety, and no wakeful birdsongs. Just me. The computer. A stack of work. A lack of inspiration. And a whole lot of nothing coming out the ends of my fingers.
-Lo, who has come back to the bob thing again.