writer's block

You know it's bad when you have to google "what is the term for when a writer is stuck?" in order to remember the term 'writer's block'.  

I have a bad case of that right now.  In my experience, there are two types of writer's block:

1. The type that is a bi-product of feeling brain dead.

2. The type that is a bi-product of feeling overwhelmed by a million small, unrelated thoughts.

I rarely operate in any other state than the above two, but from time to time I do have coherent thoughts that yield something I'd want to read later.  It's also in my experience that I would rather suffer from number one than number two.  Number one is simply a lack of something to say.  I'm not a journalist or a columnist or anyone else whose livelihood depends on the need for a steady stream of content.  If I don't have anything to say, I can simply just continue not saying it.  Number one is almost like a mental vacation.  But number two is the worst.  It's the state of feeling stuck in a bad Cathy comic, blowing up front hairs in exasperation while a desk of piled papers gets higher.  And don't forget the hands on hips.  Number two is just ugly.  And it stinks up the joint.  No one likes Cathy; even Cathy doesn't like Cathy.

I'm tired, and yet I still have so much running through my head.  I'm not a huge worrier, but I do worry.  I'm slowly coming out of the control freak closet.  I don't think I have any attention deficit disorders, but I certainly can be found walking in circles like a dog chasing it's tail, unsure why I just walked into a room.  And anyone who knows me knows me, is well aware of my short temper when things go awry.  And that's just the bad stuff knocking around.  There's plenty of good too.  There's the joy of changing seasons- blooms, walks along the river, shorter sleeves (even if a bit wrinkled, as seen above), longer days, lemony treats.  There's the joy of home- the caring for my family that seems to simultaneously exhaust and inspire.  I either sleep too much or I'm wide awake at night, staring at the blinking colon on the alarm clock, thinking about the good and the bad and everything in between.

If I were to string my thoughts together, I imagine it would look like those timelines you find in a history class.  Like a garland of notions & events dangling from a string.  Some are obvious reactions to prior ideas, but many are random, isolated, and silly.  Putin, laundry, missing jets, an article I can't stop thinking about concerning interracial friendships, my kid's book report, sickness and death, the thing that stinks in the back of the fridge, the stain on the kid's karate uniform I didn't notice until we pull into the parking lot of the karate studio, money, marriage, missed appointments, broken promises, missed phone calls, runny noses, toenail clippings on the nightstand, the check engine light in the car, all the things the future holds.  It's just being a parent, I tell myself.  Multitasking is more than just balancing a laundry basket on your head while helping a kid with long division homework, more than a bad comic strip.  It's a way of life without an off switch.  It's being busy, even if you're standing still.  It's thinking about a million things in a million directions, and not being able to articulate a single thought.  It's making yourself available to feel something new at the drop of a hat.  I need to remember that it's a gift, and the cost is only writer's block.