I've received some very nice and very thoughtful and kind of needed phone calls and text messages and Twitter tweets from friends and family members this week asking why I haven't posted to this web log much lately and I think maybe the best answer I can give comes from Armistead Maupin's Maybe the Moon.
I've been stricken with what Mom used to call "the mauves"—something vaguer than the blues but just as debilitating. If I knew what the problem was, I could fix it, or at least bitch about it, but I can't nail down my emotions long enough to give them names. I feel empty and adrift, I guess, devoid of purpose. The simplest rituals of existence, like shaving my legs or replacing the trash can liner, leave me racked with the futility of it all. I long for serendipity, but there is simply none to be had. And that hateful, familiar voice in the back of my head reminds me that I've probably already done all I was meant to do—and ten years ago, at that. I am a husk of a person, nothing more, a burned-out organism tumbling toward oblivion.
Mauve certainly isn't a desirable way to feel, but I've come to the realization that it could be much worse. So thank you for those phone calls and text messages and Twitter tweets. I plan to start posting regularly again this week.