Say what you want about the necessity, value, and quality of the—went on a bit too long—Soiled Chamois mini-shit show entitled The Quarantine Chronicles, it motivated me to write. Now, not so much.
Without looking back at those posts, I really have no idea what I found to write about. Yet, I assume I wrote about something.
So, here we are in mid-August, and our little pandemic is still killing folks, and fucking up lives in a variety of ways. The country remains strongly divided on multiple issues, and we still have a fat, bloated, orange fuck faced, racist, piece of shit in the White House. And there are signs that he may not leave even if asked via the November election.
I could yell and shake my fists at the sky like the deranged old man I’m becoming, but instead, I’ve opted to spend my spare time riding my bike, taking photos, sitting on the deck staring glassy-eyed at the trees, and watching supporterless footy on TV. And I’m OK with that.
The problem is that there is little creative value in writing about the leisure time activities I partake in to kill time between now and my—anticipated by many—exit to the other side.
I know that’s never stopped me in the past, and it probably won’t stop me in the future, but right now, I’m struggling to find the motivation to write about gravel rides that most people’s great grandparents could easily do or short hikes that have me taking more photos than footsteps.
I recognize that the words above make me sound like I am struggling a bit mentally. I can assure you I am not. In fact, even with the Great American Dumpster Fire continuing to flame on, and no end in sight for the COVID, I seemed to have found a shred of peace.
I thought I was experiencing a creative cock block, but in reality, it’s just that there are nights that when I’m given the choice of posting something here or sitting on the porch staring glassy-eyed at the trees, the trees win.
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Later.