I Misplaced My Words

"Know something, Sugar? Stories only happen to people who can tell them"
Allan Gurganus

So when did I become someone who couldn't? Where lurks my former knack for relating the absurd, the mundane, or the simple encounters of life to my 'this could only happen to me' sense of self?

I went to a meeting at the White House last week (fine, fine – the Eisenhower Executive Office Building). I had every intention of writing about it, similar to the prose-ESP I feel before going into many experiences I've then written about. But in the hours and days following my occupation of the most famous home (or the building next door…whatever) in DC, I had zero impetus to give words to the experience.

I thought that I would be able to. In anticipation of the meeting, I planned on using the White House (or, EEOB) bathroom and stealing anything that wasn't affixed to the countertop or walls, or wouldn't fit in my purse (or down my pants). Just before the 3:00 pm meeting, I waited for the White House Liaison to the Jewish Community (younger than me) - the other half of my meeting - in a room where walls were adorned (tainted) with photos of President Bush. President Bush exiting Air Force One. President Bush in a pick-up truck with his dog. President Bush mid stupid sentences, standing behind a podium.

It wouldn't have been far-fetched to think that after returning my bar-code ID tag and exiting the highly secure residence, I'd start writing the post (with aforementioned writing blocks) in my pocket-sized pink-n-brown floral notepad (which matches my stu-stu-studio) that I always carry with me, jotting down ideas and opening lines on the metro ride home. More than thinking it possible, I hoped that I would be able to memorialize my immersion in government, as my musings here are dwindling in frequency with no conscious effort on the part of the muser (me, me, and me). I don't know why my muse is running dry. Is this writer's block? Is it me no longer needing a blog-shaped outlet? Well, my 14 ½ readers, I can't focus in on the root of the trend of blank pages.

Maybe the would-be muse failed to reach fruition because I didn't get to go to the bathroom and, more importantly, steal a souvenir. I'm just not sure - Story of my life.