Lit

Not only can I not blog, I can't lit blog. Which is just exactly what I want to do. I do. I want not simply to blog—and, gosh, blog the night away—but I want to lit blog.

I, for example, want to point out that the new issue of that literary journal has the same cover as the new issue of Vanity Fair.

I, for example, want to weigh in on that letter. You know the letter I mean. The one that may or may not be from the nut. That letter. The one that may or may not have been a tactic, an attempt to tar someone with a brush—an attempt made by a cabal of wealthy and powerful writers. That letter.

I, for example, want to say something about the stuff that she said about that country that she's from.

I want to do it, but I can't.

I'm unable to lit blog, because I'm buried up to my neck in sand. It's everywhere. Sand, enveloping my body. Sand, such small fine particles, gathered together to hold me in place. Sand working its way into every crease in my body—the wrinkles in my belly, the tiny deep pit of my belly button, the thicket of hair under each of my arms. Sand, fitting me.

My little pinky is moving, slowly digging its way free, but I don't think I can release myself from my prison of sand. I feel the tiny shifts, though. The sand, fitted into a little wall, spilling away and to the bottom of the hole my little finger is digging. More sand takes its place. More sand fits in place. Sand everywhere. No chance to read.

No way to know about the journal, or the letter, or the interview. No way to do anything but wait here trapped. Until I starve.