(no subject)
i feel indebted to fountains of emotions i'm not actually experiencing. for so long they comprised the meat of the words i've written, but they're not around anymore. some artists are sleeping on my couch. they let me see their sketchbooks the other night. it was the tiniest handwriting enveloping images from their days. before they go to sleep, they spend an hour or two writing and drawing.
and i struggle to come up with one challenging perspective of my time, usually leaning too heavily on one feeling, often sadness, never ringing nor clear. it's false. i'm not really a sad person anymore. when i stay up for too long, i carelessly pour out the dumpy contents of my mind. there is anger, maybe an accurate portrait of someone who struggles with people. i don't think that's who i am either though.
on occasion, i bill myself as someone who is highly capable of dealing with others. so much so that i will admit in writing that i have taken advantage of some. that is not entirely untrue, but again has so little to do with the way i actually go about my life.
the most difficult part of writing, for me, is knowing this is only an instant and yet in the simple act of writing it down telling myself and the world that i want to keep it forever. holding out for a truth that i don't even feel qualified to recognize because what is true and how would i know? attitude, voice.. is simultaneously meaningless and everything. take pride in your writing but don't let it inside. don't let people know what you know while telling them everything.
to write well, or to write in the way that meets my personal expectations, is to quiver on a tight rope with the constant reminder under your feet of the very real possibility of failure and injury. be confident. be graceful. be terrified inside. listen to those who will encourage your creativity, but listen harder to those who love you enough to tell you that you aren't ready yet, because they're the ones who will really keep you from falling.
i'm telling myself all of this right now because i'm on the verge of diving into a huge project. first thing i need to exhume is my sense of discipline, long-buried beneath years of privilege and instant gratification.
and i struggle to come up with one challenging perspective of my time, usually leaning too heavily on one feeling, often sadness, never ringing nor clear. it's false. i'm not really a sad person anymore. when i stay up for too long, i carelessly pour out the dumpy contents of my mind. there is anger, maybe an accurate portrait of someone who struggles with people. i don't think that's who i am either though.
on occasion, i bill myself as someone who is highly capable of dealing with others. so much so that i will admit in writing that i have taken advantage of some. that is not entirely untrue, but again has so little to do with the way i actually go about my life.
the most difficult part of writing, for me, is knowing this is only an instant and yet in the simple act of writing it down telling myself and the world that i want to keep it forever. holding out for a truth that i don't even feel qualified to recognize because what is true and how would i know? attitude, voice.. is simultaneously meaningless and everything. take pride in your writing but don't let it inside. don't let people know what you know while telling them everything.
to write well, or to write in the way that meets my personal expectations, is to quiver on a tight rope with the constant reminder under your feet of the very real possibility of failure and injury. be confident. be graceful. be terrified inside. listen to those who will encourage your creativity, but listen harder to those who love you enough to tell you that you aren't ready yet, because they're the ones who will really keep you from falling.
i'm telling myself all of this right now because i'm on the verge of diving into a huge project. first thing i need to exhume is my sense of discipline, long-buried beneath years of privilege and instant gratification.