2006-10-30 20:46:24 -0800 In the last few months, I have been writing more than I have in years. For some stretches, almost every day. But you wouldn't know this from my looking at my outgoing email or my blog. My writing has been predominantly self-directed. Maddeningly self-directed. The words crackle like static between radio stations; repetitive, irritating, but with the occasional bleed of coherent content from adjacent stations. Concurrent with this resurgence of writing has been a renewal of self-doubt and self-reproach. I had managed to cultivate a period of stability of sorts for a decade or so, and now that appears to be crumbling. And I have conveniently forgotten how I arrived at that relative contentment. It's as though I have forgotten how to be happy. My memory horizon is short and hazy enough that I cannot be certain that in crisis I have not conjured nostagic illusions of memory with which I now poke and prod myself. I cannot be certain of anything.