I’m back in Berkeley. It’s more for work than for fun. So here I am, bumming it again and bunking on a friend’s couch waiting for inspiration to hit me—so that I can complete another video edit. Three hours later, no inspiration has smacked me across the face at all, and I am so tired of looking blankly at my computer screen. Don’t get me wrong, it’s beautiful footage, but I just can’t figure out how to splice it all into a cohesive and wondrous adventure. Maybe I’m trying to be too creative. Garf!! Save me imaginary friend!!
. . .
Let’s be real. I don’t have my own Drop Dead Fred (90’s movie reference), and I don’t have all the answers in the world. Maybe I have to accept that this won’t be the masterpiece I thought it could be. Maybe if I get more direct and less flashy it will all come together. Sigh.
To top it all off—my video editing dry spell has trickled into my writing space. As many of you writers know, having writer’s block for more than five days is like getting your soul sucked out of you with the tiniest straw in the world. It’s painful and it pinches. I am being honest with myself right now, and I am confessing to being unable to write anything substantial in the last few days. Why?
I don’t really know. Maybe it was because I was away from HERE. Here in Berkeley.
I could blame it on the hot Los Angeles weather. I could blame it on my boyfriend (God bless his patient soul). I could blame it on my looney family (God bless their humor). However, I don’t really think it was any of these things. I believe it was the fact that I was back in my own state of “HOME” (hogar, casa, house) that put me into a frozen state of what life could be if I decide to do nothing with my degree. I sat alone in a room while everyone went to work and watched Investigation Discovery for hours upon hours. By the way, after the second day of watching this show I have been dramatically changed and the paranoid status in my brain has gone up a few notches.
Sometimes, at home in LA, I would surf the net for something interesting. I tried to get past page 3 of Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. I pigged out on ice cream. I enjoyed Wendy Williams…oh God, I really did. I was a sad sad writer in my LA casa. Chaos all around me—with deafening silence blasting in my ears with only my thoughts about the future to haunt me. It seemed like my thoughts were running a marathon, and my fat a$$ could not catch up. I just watched as the hours on my sister’s digital clock changed. Occasionally, I would pinch my arm to make sure I was still alive, but mostly I just ate a bunch of food and erased all my sorrows with episodes of Investigation Discovery. When my poor sister walked through the door, I inundated her with questions about her day.
Have I become so traumatized by my school that I am only able to focus and work while near my alma mater? Why has Northern California suddenly become the space where I can focus? The space where I can express my thoughts? I’ve been here before. It smells the same, and it’s colder. I have no complaints. I am feeling a little more focused than before.