Lost it. In the basement.

Perhaps it means that someone sat down heavily in a chair. Or they have flopped somewhere, in some corner. Maybe their back is to the wall, and they are sinking. Slowly sliding down the wall.

Or it could be the noun version of the word. A steep fall. A drop. A recession.


I am in one. It happens every so often. But the past couple of weeks, my writing has been stale. It is on the “Day-Old-Bread-Rack” at the Piggly Wiggly. It is flat. Tired.

As musty as a dark old basement, with a washboard and the other-thingy. Yes. The other thing. Where you turn the handle, and the two rollers start moving, and you put the wet shirt in there, and it squeezes all the water out. But the basin doesn’t drain very well, so the bottom of the thing always stays wet.

Hence the musty, stagnant smell in the basement. That old basement, with the single light bulb, with the pull chain, in the middle of the room. The one that you kind of have to feel your way there in the dark, with your hands moving all this way and that, as you try to find the chain for the light. And then it hits you right in the face as you are walking blindly.

It hits you right in the face.

I just remembered. The other thingy was a wringer. Apropos. My written word lately, has truly been through the wringer.

Plummet. Tumble. Decline. Flop.

Writing is the only thing in my life I’ve every slumped at. When I think about it. I’ve never hit a “House Cleaning Slump” where I was just “off” when I dusted or scrubbed the toilets.

Nor a “Driving Slump” when I couldn’t figure out how to turn the thing on, or how to fill it with fuel.

I used to play softball pretty competitively. I was never in a hitting slump, because I was never that great of a hitter. I was consistently mediocre at the plate. Playing defense was more my gig.

But here I am, sitting with a blank piece of digital paper, and a keyboard. The cursor is blinking. Winking. Cursing. I could tell you about the first American canonized as a Saint. Or about William McKinley getting shot. Or even how the Buffalo Bills go their nickname. But it would be dull.

Dull. Again. Like it has been for the past couple of weeks.

So. I’m sniffing around for my Mojo. Trying to find my Chi. Heck, at this point, I would be happy to find my Chia Pet. Last night, I had a dream that I was staying in a hotel. When I returned to my room, a woman was there cleaning the room. She had an old, snaggle-toothed, white poodle with her. I could tell that she thought it was my dog, but it wasn’t. My dog, a smaller, cuter, white dog, was not there. Nowhere to be found.

I think that was a sign about my writing. And Slumping.

I can’t find my pup.

So for now, I’m taking the poodle out for a walk, to see if I can get him to do his business.



The rose and the thorn, and sorrow and gladness are linked together. — Saadi


I can be changed by what happens to me. But I refuse to be reduced by it. — Maya Angelou


“He was a hopeful bear at heart.” — Michael Bond, Paddington