Charles Karel Bouley
special to reallykarel.com
Why don’t I want to click on you? I bought you so I would write more, you vintage keyboard with the cute 1980s click and light up keys whenever I press them. But my inability to press them appears to be depressing me. Why?
Have I nothing to say? Nothing to rant about? I have literally filled books, filled volumes, with my blathering on in print of some kind. I have always turned to writing as a release no matter what I was going through in life; and yet, I’ve completely changed my life, a time when one would think I would be burning up the blogs, and nope, barely written a thing.
I’ve spoken on radio, on TV. But that’s been more mandatory, out of duty or obligation really. That’s obvious by the amount, or lack, of work I put in to the daily and weekly shows. I want them to be so much bigger, but because I don’t see a way to make them that way on my budget and by myself, I just…what? Get defeated?
Is that what this is, what it’s been? Did you quit? Were you defeated in California and retreated to Las Vegas, to hide away and only do what you must?
Or, is that simply fear speaking…because there’s so much of it everywhere these days. Is that self-doubt, because no one believes in themselves these days much, given the state of the world.
Maybe all, maybe some, maybe none.
So what do I do?
Well, sit and click, that’s the first thing. Write, for the love of God!
And so, here we are. But a writer writes what’s on his mind.
My mind? Winter, cold, grey, aloneness.
Sunshine, blue skies, snow covered mountains and dog running.
Great food, good friends and laughter.
Quiet nights, wondering if I’ll have a special someone to kiss at midnight again some new year’s eve. Christmas happening whether I like it or not…
Each and every one a topic and yet, many to be left alone.
For tonight, as Ember barks her way in to a time out in the bathroom, I’ll be grateful that I at least got 400 words to click out of me. And tomorrow, maybe 800 about one of the above topics or something new.
It’s time I sing again. Write again. Tour again. Produce again. Be me, again, new, reinvented. Or actually quit. And that thought makes me angry, so, must not be the right one.
If that’s what I’ve done, it’s over. If that’s what I’ was doing, it’s nipped in the bud. As lovely as it may sometime sound, with all of those around me effected by cancer, death, illness, aging, sickness…I’m not and that has to count for something.
Or else it’s all wasted. And I detest wastefulness.
Ember is out and back on my lap, all kisses. It’s nearly 2200, which is bedtime these days.
But it’s a start.