I spent the whole month of February hobbled by sciatica nerve pain. For two weeks I could neither walk nor sleep. The only position that was half-way comfortable was sitting down. Up all night, I watched every single romantic comedy on Netflix.
By the middle of March, I was 80% recovered–and am now at 90%. I actually did two back-to-back 30 mile bicycle rides last weekend.
Yet . . . . I can’t tell you how this has knocked the stuffing out of me. I haven’t been able to get back to blogging (obviously) or to much of anything else. For the first time, I just feel old. Which not only means tired and de-energized, but also disinterested.
I have still been reading a fair amount–and all over the map as usual. From William Carlos Williams to a biography of Alexis de Tocqueville. But I feel no urge to write my reactions up, as if taking part in some ongoing conversation (even if it is a fantasized one) is no longer part of who I am. Makes me wonder if, all these years, I just felt a need to report to the world (again a fantasized audience), like any dutiful child: “see, look what I’ve done. I’ve read this and thought that.” And now I feel outside of that game.
Will it come back? I don’t know. I have agree to write a few brief pieces. And I am writing a self-help book for aspiring actors with Kiernan and Raven. We’ll see if anything comes of that project. The words still flow if I sit down at the keyboard. I just don’t feel any urgency about getting to the keyboard.
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