This is not the May installment of “Writer’s Block”, a feature that has inexplicably become a fixture here on my blog. It has a superficial and, quite frankly, deceptive resemblance to that feature, but the difference between the two is as vast as it is deep. The “same-yet-different” effect is akin to listening to two versions of the same Schubert piano piece – one played by Alfred Brendel and the other played by Lang Lang. Or, to put it in terms that non-classical listeners may understand, it is akin to hearing two guitar licks – one played by Brad Paisley and the other played by Keith Urban. But then, in the latter example I had no idea what I was talking about, which puts us even, since in the first example you had no idea what I was talking about. Let me explain further.
If I were to write this month’s installment of “Writer’s Block”, there would have had to be a strict scenario already in place. I would have had to have not written a word in about five days, and my reading public would have had to be clamoring for a new article – yet I would be unable to oblige since I would have had nothing to write about.
This is decidedly not the case here. It is true that I have nothing to write about (observant readers will have already caught this), but it is not true that I have not written for five days; nor is it true that anybody is clamoring with any particular level of significant volume for a new article. I have written in each of the past two days, and the simple fact is that I want to write today – yet I have nothing to write about. You see, I am writing just for the fun of doing it and for the love of my craft and out of kindness to my readers, even though I have nothing to write about. It would be akin to my wanting to give you a million dollars even though I don’t have a million dollars.
Observant readers will expect that the article should have already ended by now, but such is not the case, for I shall go on. Sensible readers, sensing (of course, for that is what they are best at doing) that I am bound for a miles-long hike into unknown territory without any hiking shoes, backpack or provisions, will now stop reading and leave the computer, headed for tasks they should have been doing in the first place. Your intrepid author, who neither observes nor senses, will now fling caution and good judgment to the wind and continue upon his Journey to Nowhere, oblivious to the fact that the three readers he had left, who were hanging on only because of their naïve belief that there really was going to be a good article someday, have now deserted him.
Which is quite unfortunate for them, for inspiration has now struck quite unexpectedly. You see, mere seconds ago (it will have been hours if not days ago as you read), a ceiling tile fell out of my ceiling onto my bed, not even two feet away from where I sit. I must emphasize that I am not making this up for the sake of saving this article (which is past saving by now). Observant readers will now, via my expert analysis, understand that their beloved author has experienced a sudden, rare, and historic personal event of proportions so immense as to be larger than life – namely, he has narrowly escaped death while in the process of writing.
The aforementioned ceiling tile, which fell out of the ceiling onto my bed at close proximity to myself, is white. This has absolutely no relevance to the general story, which is why I make the point. It is made of an unidentified material, which I would identify if not for the fact that writers are generally not builders in their spare time. The tile, which is nearly square in shape (which would also make it nearly if not completely rectangular in shape), is not particularly heavy to hold; in, fact one might almost call it light. However, had the tile been positioned directly over my head, it might have killed me if A) it had struck just the right portion of my skull or B) the shock of the sudden blow had literally startled me to death. Even if it had not killed me, it would have killed this article (in which case some readers would have called the ceiling tile a God-send), because the pink insulation which fell out of the ceiling with the tile would have set me to itching myself feverishly, which would have taken away the use of my fingers to type.
This is not the first ceiling tile that has fallen out of my ceiling. In fact, this very same ceiling tile has fallen out before, only to be replaced. A very much smaller ceiling tile (which is farther away from where I sit and is definitely very rectangular in shape) fell out of my ceiling a few weeks ago and still has not been replaced. Thus I have two empty holes in my ceiling – one of them nearly square in shape and the other very rectangular in shape. Observant readers (who will have returned out of concern for my safety) will note that this is very much like the game “Whack-a-Mole”; but again we see a marked “same-but-different” effect. It is not like “Whack-a-Mole” in that you never know which ceiling tile will pop out next; rather, it is like “Whack-a-Mole” in that I am the mole, and I never know which ceiling tile may whack me over the head next.
Kind-hearted readers will have great compassion at this point, for they will feel deeply that I am not furnished with safe enough lodging, and their kind hearts will urge them to do their part to see that I am. I will end my ramblings by saying that I am accepting funds at my home address, and will consider any offers of temporary lodging until such funds become sufficient for me to procure my own on a more permanent basis.
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