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Irmahgerd a Hurricurn!

Once again, it’s been two weeks since my last blog post, and once again, I feel compelled to write about it. It’s as if my public self-flagellation will somehow redeem my writing abilities. Maybe this week will be the week that my writing mojo returns. Who knows?

I do have a doozy of an excuse for my absence though. Turns out Trump’s wrong and we shouldn’t be worrying about Jose after all. It’s that bitch Irma that’s the troublemaker. And boy, did she cause trouble. Even though it’s been five days since she visited my neck of the woods, I’m still staggering around like an extra in The Walking Dead.

The issue, however, is that I didn’t suffer anywhere near the catastrophic losses my neighbors to the south of me did. Friends on both Florida coasts lost everything. It’s difficult to get my head around how they must feel right now. In fact, I’m feeling guilty because I didn’t suffer much. I lost a tree, which fortuitously fell away from the house. I went without power for a day and a half. Turns out I don’t have much of the pioneering spirit about me. This momma needs A/C!

Ironically, the last time I felt this type of guilt was 16 years ago to the day. That September 11th will, or course, live in infamy. There’s not an adult alive today who couldn’t tell you exactly where they were when they heard that news. I felt just as helpless and hopeless then too. It’s called survivor guilt; a subset of PTSD. The trouble is I feel guilty about my survivor guilt. What right do I have to have survivor guilt? Nothing that bad even happened to me personally! And so the downward spiral goes. Further and further into the abyss of self-pity and incapability. The outcome leaves me artistically gelded. I am mute.

The trouble is I’m not unique in my vulnerability. These are scary times. It’s hard to stop and smell the roses when there are storms wider than the State of Florida heading straight toward you, and men are spatting who have access to nuclear codes. The value of art itself is under attack in the form of slashed funding for the National Endowment for the Arts and Public Broadcasting. The 4th Estate is maligned if it’s not fawning over our commander-in-chief. It’s not unreasonable to be feeling a tad apocalyptic!

As I wrote a couple of weeks ago, I know I’m not the only writer suffering in these times of uncertainty, but I derive little comfort from knowing others are in the same boat when it’s the HMS Titanic. Should I be using my writing as way to purge my deepest, darkest fears? Yes, of course! Plath did it. Woolf did it. (Oops - they may not be the best examples.) Then why do I find myself in a trance-like state watching infomercials for face yoga? Did you know that’s an actual thing? Not only is it a thing, I was a mere click away from wasting $17 of my hard-earned on a wall chart of funny faces.

Dear Lord, how can I expect anyone take my writing seriously, if I can’t skip Facebook ads for face yoga?

In my defense, a hurricane did just blow through.

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