"Welp. Still haven't posted at The Gothic Ginobili yet. Writer's block."
It's the strained, pathetic cry of futility, meaning nothing and aggravating me with its meaninglessness. I've long known there's something to this block beyond some nebulous "things have to change": it's just that I haven't known or been able to articulate just what.
I love basketball, and I love writing about basketball. As the spooky, CIA-monitored, RJ-enshrining, prevolutionary version of my contributions to that blog, Pearls of Mystery gives the lie to the writer's block. I have no trouble writing these sentences and approving them for publication when I'm safe in the knowledge that no one will read this crap. And so it goes that here I can write whatever I want, and I feel not just respite from the "block" but the non-existence of this block entirely. It's not performance anxiety, either: If you could witness the number of things I manage to say about sports in a given day to friends and acquaintances, you'd think that I'd thought about little else. I love the public discourse, too: That's not the friggin' problem. Nor is time commitment: I've been spending a lot of time learning sort of the theoretical and empirical basis for competition. I've really been exploring my most basic impulses, competitively, and been learning to articulate them. That's not the problem.
There is no damn writer's block, and there's nothing wrong with the Gothic Ginobili. So what the hell gives? Why am I suddenly so d*mn profane? LOL.
Well, the truth is, I think it starts with my relationship to my family (especially my extended family on my father's side). See, I love my family dearly and I'm certain they love me back. But while the love is unquestionably genuine at every turn on both sides, the relationships, communications, and expressions are ingenuous and infinitely questionable. Which is only to say that the love is human.
