Friday, March 21, 2008

Wanting To Unweave It

I am waiting for my body to catch up to my head (in one sense) and (in another) for my heart to catch up to my body. A sense of fragmenting, you know? All these aspects etherbound and a leaden will, stuck dumbly on the ground. It won't always be like this, I know that, but these days I am tired, scattered and vaporous, all stringy-apart and disintegrated. I am tired now and the days will be longer, and longer yet.

I have taken to too many wandering walks each day. Too many walks end in commerce. This is what happens when I can't deicide. (Where. Which. When.) When all the small decisions are too much and I need something to ameliorate the corrosive hours of work (both jobs). I come home with expensive tea cookies for my mother and green tea for my brother, maybe even a new book for myself. I hunt for perfect scents in the air around me.

Give me solution. Solace. Stimulation. Something. But stop leaving me in the shadows. I know I like to pretend, but you ought to know that it really hurts.

Friday, March 14, 2008

Trouble Sleeping

Just finished Story of My Life and I’m restless and heartbroken. In sort of a mind-frenzy, anything to tap out my emotions and lead me…nowhere. No where is now here. Nowhere is the only safe spot in the universe we imagine real.
I am exhausted beyond belief. I am whimsical and desperate. I seek a smooth flow of jagged words and not a vein out of place. Cacophonous symmetry. The outline of lightning in electric words halted in mid-hit. That’s what writing is to me: stopping time and attempting to describe the universe of one moment. Piecing them together sometimes to attempt to convey an experience. In the physical world. Though in writing-mode, the physical world is an abstraction, albeit sometimes a tactile one. But then, can’t the same be said for memory?

And none of this is new and I’m starting to hate where this is going and thinking, “Maybe I just need some excitement in my life”, and detesting the thought because it makes me feel so banal. And I know this is useless but so am I and art mirrors life and I should probably just turn this off and try to row out to dreamland again but the thought of that is just so depressing- like defeat at this moment and I don’t even know why but I know I feel stupid.

And I just want someone to knock me out. Just a clean punch to the brain, the skin needn’t be bruised--and I know that’s impossible since I don’t do drugs or painkillers.

Ah, the masochism of being a writer and forcing yourself to go through life sober…