The Dark Side of Fridaville

November 27th, 2007
When my imagination can’t come up with the rent for my room in Fridaville, this is what it feels like. No ideas for an essay, much less a book. No funny thoughts. No slanted views of life. No spark to light a room. No color in the universe. A chain link fence to keep wild life out. Vines full of thorns that strangle any would-be blooms with “You’re such a hack.” Does this happen to everyone? You wake up one morning and you’re living in a double-wide body watching tv all day. Your soul isn’t neon pink and aqua any longer…it’s just rubbed down to the bare boards. If an idea hit you in the head, you’d just double up on the Advil. My fear is always that the well will run dry permanently, that I’ll never move back into that room in Fridaville strung with paper flowers and stars, candles burning at both ends, a crazy musician who forgot to go home still playing on the porch. Because no matter how many times I get it right, hit a home run, find le mot juste, it always seems like the last time.