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I should have picked a different Monday for the re-opening of this site.  Boy home sick, customers to call, a dozen work errands begging for attention when there’s time for only one or two.  A pile of paperwork a foot thick to sift through.  Sounds just like the old days, doesn’t it?

I did manage to squeeze out a new entry over at scrinetunes, where I attempt to convince everyone that I know the exact moment when I started liking blues music.  I don’t remember what I had for breakfast this morning, but I can supposedly tell you in detail about the music from a road trip that took place nearly thirty years ago. 

All I can think of is that time must have moved slower back then, which made it much easier to remember.

You’d be surprised the number of things I’ve written in my head that never made it out.

    No you wouldn’t.

You’d be shocked that I’m not the person you thought I was.

    No, of course you wouldn’t.  You knew all along.

You’d be scared to know I’m trapped somewhere between night and day.  You’d worry.

    No, that’s stupid.  We’re all trapped.  You have your own worries.

Well, maybe then you’d want to know that all I think about are my truths.  That I’ve sat here unmoving this many years because of that one single thing.  That my truths have me dead to rights, a blade against the ever-loosening skin of my aging neck.  Maybe you’d want to know that.  Maybe that’s the thing.

    But no, of course not.  Holding the blade, you already knew that, didn’t you?

Note: Originally posted on brandnewmonster.com

Like a summer resort, I’m seriously thinking about closing this place down for the winter.  Shutter the windows and lock the doors.  Nail down the lid on the comment box, at least until spring thaw.  I haven’t had anything to say and there aren’t that many of you around.  Damn spammers, of course, knocking over trash cans, leaving their crap all over the place.  I could do without them, at least do without worrying about them for a few months while I sold my house and got myself moved.  Maybe I’d even have something to say when I came back.  There’s just no telling.

So don’t be surprised if you show up here one day soon and find the place boarded up tight for the winter with a sign on the door:  See you in March!

I’ve visited my own site so few times in the last couple of months that I almost don’t recognize it when I do stop by, and considering the visual connection I’ve always made with the site in the past, I’m wondering what this means.

Where is all the silence coming from?  The too-much-work and double mortgage payments I’ve been having to make?  Is it being bent over that barrel that’s taken away almost all my creative thought.  It’s one of the things - one of the big ones - I’m sure.  Life whipping you so long and so hard that eventually you go numb and just wait for the end.

Will I break?  Will I ever see the other side of this numbness?  And I’m afraid that my mind is running out of compartments.  Where will it all go when it overflows?  Who will clean up the mess?