This is how it starts, I think.

One of my biggest curiosities about myself, along with my biggest fears, is wondering when I will just drop this whole writing thing – if it’s even substantial enough to be called a “thing” anymore – and move on. Do I think this is going to happen anytime soon? Not at all. I can’t fathom such a thing; it would be like living without oxygen, or nicotine, or masturbation. So why is it so difficult right now? I mean, I’m sitting here, staring at a screen, and nothing is happening. And I can concentrate on nothing for more than seven minutes. Five if I’ve been drinking.

(Hey, I haven’t listened to that entire White Stripes show I downloaded off Kazaa in a while. God, there’s so much good stuff on Kazaa. Did you know you can download movies that aren’t even out yet off Kazaa? Friend of mine watched Punch Drunk Love the other day. Can you believe that shit? I mean, that’s no way to watch a movie, but that’s you can get it on your computer … fucking nuts. Hey, look, it’s the original CNN broadcast of 9-11. It’s perversely amusing to watch the opening minutes now. There’s almost a whimsical quality to the newscasters’ voices, before they realized what was going on. “Get this, folks! A plane! World Trade Center! Seriously! Well, the U.S. Open was last weekend …” There’s a reason they never rebroadcast that live. Paula Zahn looks like she’d rather be interviewing Wolfgang Puck.)

To be honest, I haven’t produced anything of value in about two weeks. I can’t even write a letter to a friend who just left for the Peace Corps in the depths of Africa. How hard can it be to come with something to say there? “So, is it true that they all talk in clicking sounds?” “Do they really not wear clothes in the village? If so, is it true what they say about the men of Mali?” “Do you have a cheek ring yet?” Yet I can’t even do that. The lady moves halfway around the world to do good deeds, and I can’t even write her a letter. This is new. This is different. This is trouble.

(Ever hear of Budd Dwyer? He’s that politician who, about to be indicted for bribery, shot himself at a news conference. Absolutely insane. You can get that on Kazaa too. It’s an exhilarating feeling, to be honest, to watch someone about to shoot themselves. Look at his face. He knows what he’s going to do. It’s the craziest thing; he’s telling the audience to be careful, he has a gun. Then … BLAM. If only Kazaa had slow motion. Maybe I can run it through my Real Player. In other news, have you seen that original Spider-Man trailer, the one where the bank robbers get caught in the web Spider-Man spins between the WTC towers? Creepy.)

Is there anything more useless than a writer who can’t write? I mean, in just about any practice, you can half-ass your way through something, doing the minimum effort for a day or two, and no one can really tell. But one uninspired column, and it’s obvious to everyone. If only I could be so lucky to write an uninspired one. It is 5 p.m. on Sunday. I began this Saturday morning. This is the first sentence I wrote. No, wait, it’s this one. No, this one. It’s pathetic, really. It’s not that writing is the most essential trade in the first place, and here I am, too flaccid to avoid complaining how I can’t even do something so trivial. I mean, I highly doubt handymen sit there whining, “You know, I just can’t put together this shelf today.”

But nevertheless, here I am, telling you: I cannot produce this shelf today. Not that you care anyway. Not that you really should.

(Some woman just got her leg bit off by a shark. I didn’t think that’s what it would really be when I clicked on the title, but sure enough, there it was. I am learning not to underestimate Kazaa. She’s swimming, leisurely, carefree. It’s sunny. She’s I like her breasts. And then … there goes the leg. Everyone’s screaming, the camera’s shaking, people are jumping in the water. Then the tape stops. That shark came from out of nowhere. I should watch that again; maybe I can catch him coming this time. Slow … slow … nope. Still didn’t see him. Let’s see, what else … oh, man, people jumping from the WTC. They never showed that on TV. No wonder. When I heard about people jumping from the top floors, I imagined one final decision, that’s it, let’s go, a graceful, soothing, swan-like glide, a final act of defiant peace. That’s not what it was, though. One man [woman? figure?] violently twists, turns, flips, gyrates, no control, here, there, before, then, the strangely dull thud. Another hits the side of the building and splits in half.

Do not underestimate Kazaa.)

When did this start happening? I cannot move. I believe this is called atrophy. I can feel my bones decaying. Am I going bald? I suspect I haven’t moved from the couch in two weeks, except to go to work, where I stare blankly at a screen and wait for my company to dissolve. It’ll happen. Has to. They always do. There is a football game tonight. Maybe I’ll watch it. I should write. Maybe I’ll sleep through it. But I should write! Maybe I’ll just sit here and meld with the computer a while longer. Inspiration has to strike eventually, right?

(There’s police helicopter video. They’re above the North Tower. The South Tower has already gone down. I don’t know how the pilot and cameraman aren’t gagging. They’re directly above it now. Then the rumble. Then down it goes. They must feel so helpless. They must want to hang upside down from the helicopter, grab the needle and just pull, goddammit, pull. How the cameraman had the wherewithal to keep filming this is beyond me. Maybe it’s an automatic camera, like, attached to the side or something. How did this video get leaked anyway? Why would the police give this up? Because once you give it to anyone, it’s gonna end up on Kazaa, everything does, and then some guy is watching in the silent dark on a Saturday night, wondering why he doesn’t feel worse, wondering why it isn’t bothering him more than it is.)

I am numb. There is nothing there. Believe you me, I’m looking, and I’m telling you, there’s nothing. It is not affecting me. I want to bash my face into the wall. I want to set my leg hair on fire. I want to scream until my throat turns raw and bleeds. Something has to really hurt, right?

This is how it happens. That fire, that spunk, that let’s go get ‘em, that hey, what are we all here for but to CREATE? … one day, it just vanishes. It’ll come back, sure, in spurts, here or there, but it’s never been gone before, so who knows when it’ll go again? Without it, everything is grayer, dull, obtuse. Nothing feels good, nothing hurts. Everything just is, uninspiring, trudging forward into powder. It is, of course, meaningless. You know that, right?

This is how it happens; this is why people stop.

May Wednesday be over as soon as possible.

*BT*

Life as a Loser runs every week. Join the Life as a Loser discussion group at: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/onecrappycolumnist.