The thing that troubles me not a little, although assured early and often by my guru, Swami Beyondananda, is that writer's block is a fabrication. And yet, not very often, but yet fairly often, I find myself not writing.
I tell myself that it isn't writer's block; that it's simply life getting in the way. Life does get in the way of our intentions sometimes, doesn't it? I think, after a reasonable amount of consideration, that you will agree life does sometimes get in the way.
Still, all things considered, why do I go for weeks without writing? Could it be there's nothing interesting to write about? No, that's absurd there's always something interesting afoot.
I've considered the whole thing forward and back but haven't been able to get a handle on it and in times such as this, there is only one recourse for me. Take it to a higher power.
So I brought it to Ms. Wonder's attention. She has a way of seeing through these things that astounds me. She performs wonders right before my very eyes and still leaves her methods shrouded in mystery.
"Poopsie," I said, "I wonder if you have a few minutes to help me with a knot? You know what I mean. What is that knot we hear so much about?"
"Gordian Knott," she said.
"That's it," I said, "the Gordian Knott, although I don't know why Gordian. Do you suppose Gordian untied knots while leaving bibles in hotel rooms?"
"The Gideons, I believe, leave bibles in hotel rooms. The Gordian Knot is a legend from the time of Alexander the Great that became a metaphor for an intractable problem solved by a bold stroke."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why did it become a metaphor?"
"It seems the Phrygians were without a king..."
"Phrygians," I said. "Wonder, are you making this up? I mean, Phrygians?"
"It's an ancient legend," she said. "An oracle decreed that the next man to enter the city driving an ox-cart should become their king..."
"Wait," I said. "I believe you're confusing the ox-cart thing with a sword in the stone, and just as I surmised, it wasn't Phrygians, it was the British."
She gave me a look that one might give the guy who rides his motorcycle through the neighborhood after midnight. Then she continued with the ancient legend, which I'd already determined was some kind of garbled fairy tale.
"A peasant farmer named Gordias drove into town on an ox-cart and was immediately crowned king. Out of gratitude, his son Midas dedicated the ox-cart to the Phrygian god Sabazios, known as Zeus to the Greeks, and tied it to a post with an intricate knot."
"Wonder," I said, "I appreciate your effort but I must ask you to put a sock in it when it comes to peasants driving ox-carts and becoming king. Reminds me of that frog who dreamed of becoming a king. Pure drivel."
"Fine," she said.
"Still, why the metaphor?"
"The ox-cart remained in the palace until Alexander arrived. An oracle had declared that any man who could unravel the knot was destined to become ruler of all of Asia..."
I held up a hand. "Wonder," I said. "Think about it for a second. First, an oracle predicts a farmer driving an ox-cart. Let me remind you that I have plenty of experience with Oracles. I was a professional Oracle administrator for years."
"Second, now an oracle makes a second prediction about loosing the knot that binds the cart. I think Freud would have a lot to say about this legend; probably involves dysfunctional family relationships."
She sighed deeply and this time gave me a look that a mother might give a child whose ice cream slides off the cone and onto the boardwalk. Then she demonstrated that stubborn Slavic streak and continued with the story.
"Alexander struggled to untie the knot and then realized that it would make no difference how the knot was loosed, so he drew his sword and sliced it in half with a single stroke."
"Nope. Can't go there," Poopsie. "Not plausible. Too many oracles declaring stuff just in the nick of time. Life doesn't allow for it. Comes fast and hard, that's what life does and you don't just saunter into town and be named king because you're driving an ox or any other type of cart. Nor do you untie knots with a sword and become ruler of Asia."
"Nevertheless, many people over centuries have found it meaningful as a metaphor."
"Yeah, well people over the centuries have found Shakespeare meaningful too. What of it?"
"Oh, yes," she said, "I almost forgot. In Henry the Fifth, Shakespeare said, Turn him to any cause of policy, the Gordian Knot of it he will unloose, Familiar as his garter."
"There, you see? Pure bilge. Familiar as his garter. Shakespeare at his best. Ha!"
I waited for her response but it never came. She just looked at me as though I'd just announced that I wanted to breed Pomeranians.
"Well, thank you, Poopsie. That explains Gordias I suppose but not Gideon. I happen to remember from my bible study in elementary school, that Gideon was a timid Israelite who was called by God to free his people from Midianite oppression.
I think an oracle was involved there too. Oracles are a sure sign of poppycock, Wonder. Poppycock! And you can quote me.
As I remember, Gideon was successful in carrying out his assignment. Trumpets and torches figured into it. He was rewarded with so many wives that he sired 70 sons.
Unfortunately one of the sons murdered all his half-brothers. You'd think one of them would have gotten wise before it was too late."
She continued to stare at me and I thought it best to take immediate action to avoid her becoming unhinged.
"But enough of that," I said. "What about the bibles?"
"The Gideons International distribute bibles, free of charge, in hotel rooms and other strategic places where people may find them. They took the name after conducting a prayer to find the appropriate name."
"God spoke to one of them I suppose. He often does speak to his people. With mixed results, it seems. Especially when half-brothers are involved."
"I don't know the full story," she said.
"And you never will," I said.
"Now, what was it you wanted to ask about? I've forgotten" she said.
"Oh, I did have a question, didn't I? What was it? Not Gideons. Oh yes, the Gordian knot. Here's the thing. You've heard of writer's block, of course."
"Sure."
"What about the photographer's block, ever experience that?"
"I don't believe so."
"What I want to know is, why do I go for weeks without writing? Think of it as a Gordian knot. I want to write. In fact, it's all I think about and yet I don't do it as regularly as I think I should."
"I heard it said that one shouldn't make a big deal of it. Just put words on paper," she said.
"Yes, I see where you're going. It worked for Shakespeare; slap a few words down on paper I mean."
"Right," she said, and she said it in a way that made me doubt her sincerity.
She's been right before and I'm sure she'll be right again. I mean just consider the law of averages. So after our little chat, I wrote this post that you now hold in your hands. I hope you'll return soon to see what I come up with. Hopefully, it will be better than the bilge Shakespeare wrote.