The Mauves, or Where I Went Last Week

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.