music from a motion picture by the same name

Fortuity.
Sitting in wineshop - a loosely slow day, long weekend and weather we havent seen in a year and accordingly the city of Cambridge is ghostly - lamenting the blank screen before me.
As of late have sought to set aside a portion of the week, if not day, for some measure of creation - writing, mostly. Am too far from comfortable with words, with their dispensure, with their...purpose and in having strayed now seek to reacquaint myself with the habit. That was mostly the point of this but I wonder if I am no longer cut out for this kind of voyeurism.
Type for a bit, erase, type more - it is, I think, simply that it is no longer easy to write. There is much more brow furrowing than I recall. The good things, that always takes effort, but describing my day? No. No no.
A customer, informed of the situation, said 'something will happen today' and I told her I hoped so.

Hours pass, am tidying the shop, walk up to the front bins and sitting atop a lid I had no removed when the sun began to set was a book called 'Art and Fear: Observations on the perils (and rewards) of Artmaking'

Huh.

The book was dog-eared to a page with this passage -

If, indeed, for any given time only a certain sort of work resonates with life, then that is hte work you need to be doing in that moment. If you try to do some other work, you will miss your moment. Indeed, our own work is so inextricably tied to time and place that we cannot recapture even our *own* aesthetic ground of past times. Try, if you can, to occupy your aesthetic space of a few years back, or even a few months. There is no way. You can only plunge ahead, even when that carries with it the bittersweet realization that you have already done your very best work.

It goes on and there is a thought in me that it is talking about something different than the qualing terror in my chest that the reason none of these poems of mine will coalesce as I desire is because I am simply no longer the one who wrote the poems I and others liked and cared for.

If that is the case, what changed and when? I panic while writing, now. Past my usual hard edge of criticism, I feel desperate. It is not easy. None of it - but it also does not return on labor. A hard night's work yields....nothing. Nothing I want to show around. I am not sure I am trying to write from the place that I was - or maybe that's the problem in precise.

I think I am lonely in a way I don't really know to eloquate. Before it had always been some melancholia stemming from a girl and there is still that - but this feels, when I pause to regard, wholly different. Bleak? A little less color than there were. Perhaps this is getting older, unsure.

The book seems an odd providence - it reads all around that bit of text like I will not agree with it's politics of art, but to show up there...obviously it struck someone else the same. I wonder if someone left it for me.