|L.C. Smith and Corona Secretarial Typewriter|
The surgery seems to either have added something, or taken something away, that has had a dampening affect on my thought process. The vigor that has been added to my corporeal body seems to have come at the cost of my creative powers. Not just creative powers, my brain power in general.
I've been asked a few times if I've ever experienced writer's block, and I've always answered no, because I've never tried to write anything. Virtually every poem I've ever "written" has come to me almost whole, and my only conscious role in the process was writing down the words, then sometimes doing a few edits, which are always done immediately. If I don't do the edits immediately I lose connection with the poem forever.
Even now I have nothing to say. Facing death left me with no insight into death. Or life. It was just another task I faced, and survived. I am now an amalgamation of animal parts, human donor parts, and plastic parts. Nearly three months after my surgery I haven't had a single deep thought about it. There has been some alienation, but primarily I find the estrangement is from myself. The Universe went on for a while without me in it, and when I resumed I seemed to have lost a beat.
I'm alive, and that's a good thing. But the Universe is more strange than ever, and I seem to have less desire, or ability, to put that strangeness into words.
I will again write. The world will again not care. And then things will be back to normal.