Out of Sorts


I’ve been out of sorts for the past week or so. Not physically under the weather, but artistically less than okay. As if my creativity somehow caught a head cold.

Replete with out-of-sortsosity, my inspiration receptors have become clogged and in the wee hours of the night I’m no longer able to decipher the Aramaic Morse code of the house creaks that whisper my dreams back to me as it settles.

My fear is that The Order Of Things has finally caught up with me and placed a lien on my Adulting Account, something I’ve been attempting to stave off for most of my life. There’s no way in hell I could withstand a grown-up audit, they’d revoke my maturity license for sure.

Hell, I still watch cartoons—-but to make myself sound more posh I refer to them as animation, or anime, depending on the crowd I’m addressing, I still read the occasional comic book—-that’s graphic novel to you, pal!, and I’m that waaaaay-too-old guy you sometimes spot out the corner of your eye in the supermarket, waving my arms like a lunatic while trying to maintain my balance on the back of the shopping cart I’m riding like a Honda Kick N Go Scooter down the candy/soda aisle, singing Blur’s “Woo Hoo.”

And here’s where Out-of-sortstein rears its monstery head and blocks my attempt at crafting a pithy wrap-up that brings everything all together and ties it in a neat little bloggy bow.

Instead, I gots nothing.

So just this once, I’m asking you in Peter Pan fashion to use your imagination and pretend I wrote something clever and clap your hands. Petey asked his audience to do it when it looked like Tinker Bell was dying so she could get well again. I’m asking mine to help bring my creativity back to life.

I’d do no less for you.

Sally forth and be hand-clappingly writeful.

— Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

5 responses to “Out of Sorts

  1. You just relocated from one end of the country to the other! Give yourself a Kit Kat break, and just relax, absorb and explore your new surroundings. – unsolicited advice from Mama Bear.


    • That’s a big 4-10, Mama Bear (that brought back all types of CB memories for me). You’re partly right. It’s the common whinge of an uprooted writer who’s pressuring himself to produce brilliance when he’s out of his element, but I fear there are other things at play in me trusty dusty noggin. Things that refuse to step into the light so they can be properly addressed and sent to bed.

      Thanks for the cheer sesh, tho.


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