Skewered morsels

Writer's block just means you want to slam everything down on the page at once. It's a great problem to have: it reminds you, as if you'd ever forget, that you're a mind never satisfied with the world as it is. It's the one makeshift cloth drawer awry in a stack of six, the five others all perfectly lined up but the reds and grays thrusting out of that one miscreant at crazy angles against the prison white of the unfinished, unadorned walls. But why should that drawer and those clothes against that wall carry any more draw than the rumpled heaps of yesterday's (and yesterday's yesterdays) outfits arrayed crescentwise on the plush grapefruit-red floorcover about said stack? Than the broken peanut butter jar lined up perfectly (feng shui) with the chipped, battered radiator in the corner, used beyond belief? Than the urine-stained mattress piled upon a crushed quilt upon another urine-stained mattress, all found and retrieved on the same block from different parties with similar (no doubt) yet inscrutable objectives (a move? a fight? an accident?), upon which the secrets of the God and the world and the flesh alike revealed themselves repeatedly and forthrightly, with regularity, during the late evening hours over a brilliant melty period of three-or-so-score days?
There is a joy to be had in a world which comes at first blush off as a bit overwhelming and a bit when stone comes to grist paralyzing: beauty pulls and thrusts, tempting us with its mysteries, but its vastness keeps it forever removed from human control. Its depth--its multilayered exuberance, the charm as they say of its infinite redounds--confounds the greatest poets, the sharpest wordsmiths, the most banal indie-rock acts. Seriously! The boundless detail of this flawed world should pause even the soberest, if only for a breath, and direct attention further to the beyond-brilliant miracle realm that envelops it: a universe into which we can peer and poke but nary understand. Where are those points we fix in the sky! And how many skies with their milky points, at how many angles and in how many dimensions and at what cost, must we conquer before we can rightly set about picking apart beauty's multitudinous skewered morsels? We're but cretins, yet we can still so quickly isolate Beauty in so many of its forms, and in this we might call ourselves blessed. Herein lies the task of the writer, blocked or otherwise: to grab and gnash at the beauty-bits flying by in the hopes of knocking them down into some semblance of a coherent expression of wonderment and then, it's hoped, rearrange them and break them and finally beat them terminally into submission to create a fitting if flawed requiem for some small side-section of the symphony. Will she succeed? Well. But it's an honor & a blessing in itself for her even to sit forth at that word processor and try, and she mustn't fear.