I am--and, for about 7 days, have been--in Blogging Purgatory. The walls here are industrial green--kind of a light yellowish-sea foam color--and there are no windows of which I am aware. The clock is fuzzy, for the lack of a better word. Every time I try to focus on it to see what time it is, to get a better grasp of the finality of my perdicament, the numbers shift. It could be three in the morning, it could be three in the afternoon...hell, it could be fifteen trillion o'clock in the Ne'er World, for all I know. That is the way They want it. They want to keep me confused and under Their thumb.
It is what it is. But I yearn to be free of these Chains.
Their allowing me to press keyboard squares is actually pretty uncharacteristic, truth be told. They usually just make me watch the battered black-and-white Zenith in the living room--no writing is allowed. The TV plays scratchy versions of "The 700 Club" over and over and over again, all insincere white grins and polyester suits; They play it on a continuous loop.
Here, in Blogger's Purgatory, there are no stars. Out here, we is stoned, immaculate. See? That's all that I can do. I am bound by Chains of Uncreativity. All I am able to do is type nonsense, or rip off dead rock stars from the '60s, maaaaaannnn.
I have included a picture that I surreptitiously shot of one of the guards. He stands/sits at the top of the stairs and looks down upon me, emotionlessly, but his gaze scalds me, nonetheless. Every time that I think I might be devising a way to break the Chains of Banality, his gaze cuts through my skin, through my skull, and into my brain, whereupon it excises, laser-like, any and every germ of creative thought.
I stare, now, at these puke-green walls and I wish for days of yore. Days in which I could come up with a legitimate (or even not so legitimate) topic to post. A topic like "What I Did on My Summer Vacation" or "Why I named Lou, Lou" or "The Weather Here in Michigan Sure is Crazy, Huh?". But...no. I am in Blogger's Purgatory, otherwise known as Writers' Block 101.
Break out the plot-wheel. It's time to roll up the proverbial shirtsleeves and get to crackin'. Starting righ--Shit! I hear Them coming! Go on! Leave me! I will find you! And, if I don't, tell Peggy Sue tha