Of Cheetahs and Men

So, a friend of mine who was/is a graphic designer briefly worked on some flyers, t-shirst, etc. with a guy from Namibia. They went out one evening to a club and the guy saw a girl with a cheetah print handbag. He suddenly got really angry and said: "Everyone have the cheetah print t-shirt! Oh, they think the the cheetah so cool. The cheetah on the bag. I have friends who die from cheetah. The cheetah kill you, man. The cheetah the devil!!"

Needless to say, this story stuck with me. When it seems an appropriate metaphor, I shout out to DG, "The cheetah the devil!" You, know, like when people are shocked that wild animals attack (thanks, YouTube) or are surprised that guns kill people, or that there are no WMD in Iraq and our governement lied to us. "Cheetah the devil," applies to so many things because it is a simples statement that is true. Kind of like the immortal words of my crazy Boston landlady when my roomates ferrets escaped while she was showing the apartment: "What is that look like cat, not cat?"

Okay, so today, "Cheetah the devil" = writer's block. It is the real deal, let me tell you. I used to joke about it, it sounds like a weak excuse, but it is real, man. I have so much to say about absolutely nothing, you may find it surprising that focusing on one topic wouldn't be easier. I try to clear out time all week/end to work on my writing, but as soon as I get in a space to do it all I want to do are terrible things, like clean the apartment or go to the grocery store--errands that produce something tangible. Okay, so maybe it's not the writing that is difficult, but the editing/arranging. I'll come clean, I'm working on a series of short stories/book length piece. I've been working on them since 2004. That is a stupid LONG time. Some are done, some may never be done, others are in progress. I've had a long standing writer's group that provides solid feedback, real edits/ideas/suggestions. But here I sit, staring at multiple piles of paper trying to rearrange scenes like a crazy Frankenstein. Ack.

Though I feel like a drama queen admitting it, sometimes, I feel like Mr. Don Music from Sesame Street. The "Self-critical composer with a writing block." I most identify with how he would crash his head onto the keyboard and paper would fly everywhere.


I've started to ferret (that's right, twice in one entry!) away weird tidbits of information about people I meet to use for later. Like the Fred Flinsone-looking tax preparer who cornered me in a mind-numbing conversation regarding stolen logos, and as he pulled out his biz card a black plastic comb feel out and I made a mental note to mark the importance of the comb. Or, as my trainwreck of a co-worker rambled on about inappropriate invitations at a wedding she attended and made comments like "I'll just say she was raised right." to indicate why one type of stationery paper was superior and the other marked the mother-of-the-groom a middle-class rube, I was simultaneously processing how sad it makes me Trainwreck is so hellbent to let me know she falls into the "right" category while she reeks of alcohol in the middle of the day.

Like I said to DG the other day, "Peoples are a mess."