MUTE . . .

I want to write, I really do. I really really do.

I want to write about the book I'm re-reading ("The Brothers Karamazov"), the feelings that Jo-Jo stirs up in me, the hilariousness of a white shirt accentuating a tan, the music I'm listening to ("Passion: Sacred Hymns"), the congestion I'm feeling in my head, the constipation I'm suffering, the book of the Bible I'm just finishing again (Matthew), the things I'm waiting for (a job offer, a husband, a good poo, not necessarily in that order), the artwork I just received ("Law," by Paul Klee), the things that keep me up at night (weird burning bacon odor inside my nostrils), the people who bug me more than ever, the people for whom I have a renewed affection, the things I wish I could do (play guitar, speak Spanish fluently, write a novel), the movies I want to see ("Must Love Dogs," "A State of Mind," "Pretty Persuasion," "March of the Penguins," "Hustle & Flow," "Mad Hot Ballroom," "Saving Face"), all the things that roil about in the windtunnel of my heart and mind.

But I feel mute, unexpressive, incoherent, disjointed, out-of-body, shy.