Now that I have undercut my excuses for not writing I will say that I have finally had some inspiration.
Walking in to the Emerson was like walking into a waking dream. I could see everything and my mind was telling me how much everything around me was real but my eyes could see all the things I had seem there before. Police and citizen arrests, parties, drunks, stoners, elitists, lovers, fighters, dramatists, scandals, art, poetry, dance, and dreams made real. As I sit here now with my bottle of wine, all these things seem to blend together to form a Jackson Pollock, separate but the same, blending at the edges to form something that is nearly its own entity, entirely new and separate from what it came from, yet still connected.
Sitting in the same room with a man who was introduced as a being in the same league with William Faulkner was amazing. Hearing this man talk was brilliant. Having this experience, shaking this man's hand and knowing that his work would be the work that would inspire me to want to write again was just nigh of surreal. (I actually made the comparison to a friend who was there as well that sitting in the auditorium with Peter Matthiessen and Dr. Sexson was what it must have been like sitting in an amphitheater with Socrates and Plato. Perhaps not entirely accurate, but then again...) I felt as though if I tried really hard, or squinted just right I could see through what seemed like an ethereal mist of space-time into a future which I cannot remember just yet, a future just outside of my memory but giving me little hints as to what the preview would have been about had I been able to see clearly.
Ah, language is so imperfect.
You just had to be there.