Wednesday I woke from the dream of destroying us. Maybe it's already destroyed, or rather was while sleeping, and the progression of dreaming worsened the already distant. Sleep has been a new activity for me, an activity I don't get more time with by any means but that - when there - am more involved with. And in that way, maybe sleep has been a sort of suffering, a way of having my concerns be filled. A self-service; a masochism.
In San Francisco, I tried revising the final fiction. As I feared, it was tedious, forced and unproductive. I did nothing, but doubt my life, what I am perceptive to, what I've been choosing to become. I was also sincerely overwhelmed and depleted of energy. Oh, I also saw in the morning that I had turned the male character into a ballerina. Well, the equivalent. One thing I didn't doubt was my desperation. I was too willing to eat everything, and was visibly dragging myself around. Face in hands, I slumped outside the graduate school, unwilling to walk in, not ready for anyone to ask me who I am, what I do, if I could possibly mean anything. Sometimes I wasn't convinced I could, forgot they already thought I did.
Of course, those were only tough times. Catastrophes I was creating. Or that is what I was told. The truth is, I leave out the juice. I felt ritzy, walked pantless, came home with two handfuls of numbers. And another truth? The first person you meet in San Francisco does make you want to stay.
Today I finally caught some wind, struck a pace, and heard the voice that may - hopefully - have made the story better, solid. At midnight I began reading Adrienne Rich's The Human Eye: Essays on Art in Society 1997-2008 and Fernando Pessoa's The Book of Disquiet. I'll post quotes along the way. It's always the same feeling; a suffocation and then the touch that calms. They write what's rewritten in my mind everyday. They speak what I want to share in dialogue. In dialogue damnit! It makes me feel empty, maybe hypocritical, or deceiving to read such prose and acknowledge everything I never write out. This neglectfulness keeps even me out of the known. I know it doesn't matter to you any which way, but my aim is for others to be vulnerable, and here I can't even do it. I can't be so pathetic. But if I really let it all slip, there's a good chance that's exactly what I'd be.
On a side. The common tale that if the sex is this [sensational] it means there must be more you are communicating, can communicate. I say yes and I think no. I need it to happen.
Also, a certain type of communication I admire. The one that risks being silly while being thoughtful. The voicemail:
In San Francisco, I tried revising the final fiction. As I feared, it was tedious, forced and unproductive. I did nothing, but doubt my life, what I am perceptive to, what I've been choosing to become. I was also sincerely overwhelmed and depleted of energy. Oh, I also saw in the morning that I had turned the male character into a ballerina. Well, the equivalent. One thing I didn't doubt was my desperation. I was too willing to eat everything, and was visibly dragging myself around. Face in hands, I slumped outside the graduate school, unwilling to walk in, not ready for anyone to ask me who I am, what I do, if I could possibly mean anything. Sometimes I wasn't convinced I could, forgot they already thought I did.
Of course, those were only tough times. Catastrophes I was creating. Or that is what I was told. The truth is, I leave out the juice. I felt ritzy, walked pantless, came home with two handfuls of numbers. And another truth? The first person you meet in San Francisco does make you want to stay.
Today I finally caught some wind, struck a pace, and heard the voice that may - hopefully - have made the story better, solid. At midnight I began reading Adrienne Rich's The Human Eye: Essays on Art in Society 1997-2008 and Fernando Pessoa's The Book of Disquiet. I'll post quotes along the way. It's always the same feeling; a suffocation and then the touch that calms. They write what's rewritten in my mind everyday. They speak what I want to share in dialogue. In dialogue damnit! It makes me feel empty, maybe hypocritical, or deceiving to read such prose and acknowledge everything I never write out. This neglectfulness keeps even me out of the known. I know it doesn't matter to you any which way, but my aim is for others to be vulnerable, and here I can't even do it. I can't be so pathetic. But if I really let it all slip, there's a good chance that's exactly what I'd be.
On a side. The common tale that if the sex is this [sensational] it means there must be more you are communicating, can communicate. I say yes and I think no. I need it to happen.
Also, a certain type of communication I admire. The one that risks being silly while being thoughtful. The voicemail:
Hey carrot girl, you know I was just thinking, you're my carrot and I'm your apple, I think together we'd make a great juice. Um, if you want to go for that walk, by the way, I don't know if you're in California already but maybe we can take that sometime. I'll be around, so you know where to find me.
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1 comment:
Those intolerable questions, the "who are you?" and the "what are you about?" and the fear of answering only to be found lacking (by the questioner outside or within your own mind, same difference, either way) are best combated by turning to our friends, those who shape with words the answers we wish to give. Those who, "write what's rewritten in my mind everyday."
And isn't that why I'm reading this blog to begin with? Isn't that why I'm pasting your words and using your words and finding myself inspired by your words; inspired to write at the contents of my own mind?
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