i fly away in 2 weeks.

half way through, and unsure of any feelings. i want to be selfish about my time but my mind is never on or in the present. it is like an unfulfilled prophecy - caring so deeply about time, while always experiencing that i am absolutely disengaged from it. i recognize the problem, and have plenty excuses, which are - excuses - and nothing more or less. reasons: withdrawn inside my interior and listening to this fragmentation of narration and dialogue that streams through my mind (a persistent effort to take note and notice for written work), impassioned by a bulk of engagements that i find myself in and a constant pressure to be receiving inspiration and pursuit to be captivated. now writing this, i realize it has become such an extreme because last year i was captured, captivated and inspired by my relations always. it is what i need in my life - for happiness, appeasement, sanity. but on the flip, i must admit, i was never entirely within the present then either. it is such a terrible trait. by the end of the month i will have, likely, finished forty pages. what will those pages say? how will i feel about them? how will they be received? and all those questions probably don't matter much. the professor is pushing me for towards clarity and whereas i use to be too stubborn to compromise, i now am allowing myself. as clarity breaks through and abstraction is lessened, my writing is left with lyricism, prose and sensuality. my writing becomes about desire, intimacy and the spaces in between, coldness, passivity, silence, stillness, desperation. i think that being abstract and dense was probably a facade - an effort to make my work not about myself - a hope to not be read as overly feminine and emotional. i didn't want feelings to nag, i didn't want to sound like i cared and even though i was most concerned with the senses, i didn't want to sound and therefore appear affected by my involvements. although i believe my work is highly imaginative, i feel it is only imaginative in its construction of language (thought, word, image) and not in terms of the substance of the story that is thread within it (although i care less about plot and action) which is closely related to truth. it can be read as a construction of the imagination, but that is only because it is a view of a situation from one mind, one heart, one nerve and as a result, the memory that it is based on resides within the imagination (since it has to be located within recollection) of one individual who knows only his truth, not the whole truth. i re-read a book of essays by anais nin today and it just reaffirmed that she is the only author i have ever read or heard who explains what i hope to do and where i wish the novel will go. i read her and am entirely engaged, her importance is undeniable and yet, she confused so many. i will have to provide quotes from her at some point. i did an independent study on her last fall and now as i am trying to penetrate further into fiction, i feel like she is one of the most powerful examples i have that will explain what i am trying to do or rather, what i hope will latch on and readers will become emerged in. what i ended up taking the most to heart (probably because my first efforts in writing could never approach the idea of dialogue) were the positive reactions about my dialogue and that the readers saw how it was not the words that mattered but the meaning they exposed. this is so special to me because i believe individuals have many restraints that restrict clarity and the exposure of exact emotions and therefore, it is not so much what is said rather than it is what is not said or the pressure that can be felt within the spaces of silence (a result of speaking at each other rather than to or with each other - which is so often the case). its like 3am, early morning tomorrow, to the met we goooo, so i must try and fall asleep without an ambien. i will end by saying that what was most on my mind tonight when i got home and again came back to a room of people, was that i only want to speak to someone that i, too, want to be kissing and falling asleep with. then, i realized how exaggerated that sounded, so i edited my thought and made it clearer: i miss having a best friend who was my boyfriend and i miss living alone and i miss sharing my apartment with one guest who was my boyfriend and also my best friend and all i needed intellectually and intimately. my art relies so heavily on the experience of being physically involved with another, that i can't believe i have avoided it for what feels like so long. i feel like i make myself so unavailable in new york but yet, some other part of me that i enjoy comes out when my bed is shared. i use to run off with all these others, and now it seems just the opposite. i kiss and am unmoved and don't persist. but then there are these rare cases where i am impulsively, if not mindlessly, drawn and i want to fall entirely. i can't fake an interest - at least not after the first night, and when i do, i disappear from contact like a flake - i can't fake an interest, even the pure joy of just having someone around. interested or disinterested, never an in between. and in really loose terms, that is what this "extended story" that i am writing is revolving around.