enFRUiting. because need is being right now.
i've been avoiding lj like the plague. it's teh wrong time and teh wrong place tho these words are tempting they're the wrong words... they're not its words, but they're SUCh tempting words... that it's alright with me
there's somethign i'm triying so hard to forget; don't you, livejournal, want to forget something too? (i just got to practice, i just got to write, cuz sitting all forzen and clutcching my share wont' do me jack shit!! it's the wrong game but with the right chips....)
but oh mine, my forget-me-do, won't go away... without (what i've come habitually to see as) this MONSTROUS immensity of ritualized paintaking. i've come to see it this way partly through myself- who had such mirth from teh get-go at such an idea!- and partly through generations of tales told her ein Bardland.
i had a most poignant metaphor for this- be(meta)fore ("what's YOUR metafore??")- but now it's gone. it was hopefully what popped my angst... WHICH, actually was it: i was thinking that the past few days and in general the writing i have to do- when i sit down alone to DO it- has gotten to be, after so many hashings nad rehashins and attempted skeletons in my head- like a thick rock of a nut- a chestnut?- just sitting there, that can't be cracked. i'd scratch at it, pick it up, throw it against the damn tree, (i got this image sitting in the sauna and imagining i was in the middle of the woods hearing that whirring noise, and that crickets and stars were outside abounding), work my fingers trying to get it open-- all for naught. stuck.
and then i thought, no: it's like a zit i can't pop. taht ain't ready yet, and aches like hell anyway, just to taunt me and get me to keep squeezing my lymph out of it. where can't i make it ready, how can i instantly ready it to pop? -or better yet, like chris supppedly can with his neosporin-on-a-bandaid and sleep trick, make it all just disappear? gone.
there is disinfectant and physical protectant involved- at least after ripping open the wound and making it sting with astringent, making it go away is synonymous with taking CARe of it, not destorying and prodding and poking it; that's exacerbating. you (or at least, *I, perhaps, speculatively) NEED to refrain from self-torture and to buffer,-if not get out the neosporin and bandaids. to emolliate, to grease the wheels before you get 'em spinning full swing again. baring down on them (i was thinking about my rollerblading days the other day... and today, walking along back from teh gym in the cold, holding my flow, i ws thinking how i just wanna fly. just have a moment or two of engagement in whatever 'activity' (hate that word... temporal politics...) where i can lift off the ground. a few inches is fine- i'm not icarus. i just wanna get lifted, cuz i so konw i can; sometime post-high school this to me finally occurred. probably while dancing. above all. then in the right times, just hanging out with people: the right people, the right times (often friends). and writing too, lately, maybe. this lj spewage, not the academic writing. but there are vacancies here
translation: my elves will do the work for me, when i enter the appropriate stupor. when i enter the appropriate phase where intact fingers actually meet keyboard to prompt word appearances in rapid succession, it's actually NEVER that bad. of course i ALWAYS will come to a place (Sometimes more immediately than others) where i fucking STOP. to rewrap (warp?) myself... to wonder what's going on or why i'm doing what i'm doing or how this is fitting in or whether it's really working... or whether indeed i'll ever make any sense to any reader ever of whatever treatise the current death-mask-donning work might be (even when the teacher giving me a fucking GRADE for our fukcing little toekn economy is clearly the only reader it'll ever see.).
but always and above all, this i've come to see: the succession- the FLOW- will be for me to have succeeded. succession is my success. and succor. without it, i'm famished. frozen and asphyxiated in the hudson, as i was contemplating yesterday. (which raluca completely cracked up about.)
and so this, ladies and gentleman, is progress. i'm typing on these fucking keys. they aren't FUCking biting me, or anything really. it's OK just to write bullshit. here i ahve no citations to worry myself with but citations are just tedium, right? to be done later. (sans the remembering, but at taht 'later' stage when already-written there will always be a way. or the citation will occur.... and half the time - "ADHD is usually not suspected prior to enrollement in school" - it's vague whether or not i even need the fucking citation anyway. that'll be in the post-bard drafts if i ever get the steeliness and simple-mind enough to reconfront. (Is it possible?)
and so i've written all this- and am feeling better, raring, ready!!!!!!!!!!!! and you cna't understand how remarkable this is until you konw how awful- lonely, angsty, hungry, tired-before-i've-started, zero-work-done, pissy and in-turning AWful- the last three days have been. and now my angst has faded, but i didn't even sweat, fater my fortyfive minutes of running, my first gym-visit all semester, and probably about my third since two springs ago. (oh TIMe...)
and have i btiched, as i so determinedly intended, about how hellish thics time has been and IS, how awful be this "FUCking cold!!" (channeling Lewis Black...)... how i'm so sick of this FUCk-ing campus... how my whole life is "a FUCKing circle, a fucking CIRcle~!!"? this i was literally cursing, shouting outloud to that sting-y and bitter air- as i have NEVER before done...- to NO one (that i know of... poor pitied fools...) along the downhill ludlow-new-science-center path last night. it was upon leaving my keys behind, and realziing i missed tegh bus and had to wait another hour for food-- my later relayance of which, to raluca, warranted a half-hour of side-splitting laughter.
have i even given any of the aborrent details of today? of the past 48 or 72 ungodly hours? have i bitched for one minute about my rampant cramping, the blood-flood, just unleashed- so mercifully- today? (whioch i've come to think of as recompense to our fecundity-goddess for not popping out BABIes more frequently, like uterii are evidently supposed to do. a most retarded goddess for has she not come out of her barbiturated stupor to see that for teh past two fucking hundred years we've not NEEDED more babies at all?? should i still have to suffer and bleed EVERY 30 days? what about 50 or 60? hell: three moon-cycles?!! how bout that, fertility-goddess? i'll call her myrtle, for "fertile myrtle." ) about the startling realization that running on an elliptical for over 45 minutes still hadn't made me sweat? in which case- THIS fuckingase, right now...- i'm either very thristy and don't realize it or i am working so hard and running so hot in HERE- pointing to my greasy pitiful skull- that it won't even register? that my brain's sweat-settings, like my amygdala and teh rest of my lizard brain in like fashion, is like "no, FUCk you, you had me on overdrive for like tenyears straight, and then you dragged me to central city and franklin avenue, all so sudden... i'm DONe!! yo uain't gettin SHIt from me no more!"
this is what i should exlpain to linda, who'd been so kindly on my case, asking me (those last few days before everyone but me fled campus) how and hwy i'm not freaking out, when there she was, freaking out about her frist chapter not TWO weeks but about 20 weeks prior to her duedate?
but my countdown ("50 weeks... 45 weeks... 30 weeks... 20... 2!!!) has faded. gone great, gratefully anyway, and so life has gone. and- differently, new-beingly- it will hereafter.
so my angst-of-late should take heart. (else lose it, as more and more shit happens, out of Bardland.)
oh it's been so fun, with shits and gigglese alike all here hitting the fan. and there's SOO much more HERE in me witing to write itself... about how weird mind-bodies are (my favorite topic, seemingly) to my father's musical taste, to AVA and her doings (demanding it be HER turn to get in teh tub, not grampa's) to why my arms and legs are so sinewy all of a sudden... (or least i've just realized it, after probalby a while. is it this new way of caffeinating, and winding myself up, maybe? this still-mysterious, almost-releasing state of impending dread-resistance.)
anyway.
here's to the UN-winding. the FLOW, about to unravel, ass to the grindstone.
and i'magonna let go (cuz no lu i havne't let go of taht whole clarity thing... i cna't deal with nuts anymore!),
reLAX, and enjoy the FUCKINg road. bumps and all.
i'm strung high but can get low. and here i'll have it.
there's somethign i'm triying so hard to forget; don't you, livejournal, want to forget something too? (i just got to practice, i just got to write, cuz sitting all forzen and clutcching my share wont' do me jack shit!! it's the wrong game but with the right chips....)
but oh mine, my forget-me-do, won't go away... without (what i've come habitually to see as) this MONSTROUS immensity of ritualized paintaking. i've come to see it this way partly through myself- who had such mirth from teh get-go at such an idea!- and partly through generations of tales told her ein Bardland.
i had a most poignant metaphor for this- be(meta)fore ("what's YOUR metafore??")- but now it's gone. it was hopefully what popped my angst... WHICH, actually was it: i was thinking that the past few days and in general the writing i have to do- when i sit down alone to DO it- has gotten to be, after so many hashings nad rehashins and attempted skeletons in my head- like a thick rock of a nut- a chestnut?- just sitting there, that can't be cracked. i'd scratch at it, pick it up, throw it against the damn tree, (i got this image sitting in the sauna and imagining i was in the middle of the woods hearing that whirring noise, and that crickets and stars were outside abounding), work my fingers trying to get it open-- all for naught. stuck.
and then i thought, no: it's like a zit i can't pop. taht ain't ready yet, and aches like hell anyway, just to taunt me and get me to keep squeezing my lymph out of it. where can't i make it ready, how can i instantly ready it to pop? -or better yet, like chris supppedly can with his neosporin-on-a-bandaid and sleep trick, make it all just disappear? gone.
there is disinfectant and physical protectant involved- at least after ripping open the wound and making it sting with astringent, making it go away is synonymous with taking CARe of it, not destorying and prodding and poking it; that's exacerbating. you (or at least, *I, perhaps, speculatively) NEED to refrain from self-torture and to buffer,-if not get out the neosporin and bandaids. to emolliate, to grease the wheels before you get 'em spinning full swing again. baring down on them (i was thinking about my rollerblading days the other day... and today, walking along back from teh gym in the cold, holding my flow, i ws thinking how i just wanna fly. just have a moment or two of engagement in whatever 'activity' (hate that word... temporal politics...) where i can lift off the ground. a few inches is fine- i'm not icarus. i just wanna get lifted, cuz i so konw i can; sometime post-high school this to me finally occurred. probably while dancing. above all. then in the right times, just hanging out with people: the right people, the right times (often friends). and writing too, lately, maybe. this lj spewage, not the academic writing. but there are vacancies here
translation: my elves will do the work for me, when i enter the appropriate stupor. when i enter the appropriate phase where intact fingers actually meet keyboard to prompt word appearances in rapid succession, it's actually NEVER that bad. of course i ALWAYS will come to a place (Sometimes more immediately than others) where i fucking STOP. to rewrap (warp?) myself... to wonder what's going on or why i'm doing what i'm doing or how this is fitting in or whether it's really working... or whether indeed i'll ever make any sense to any reader ever of whatever treatise the current death-mask-donning work might be (even when the teacher giving me a fucking GRADE for our fukcing little toekn economy is clearly the only reader it'll ever see.).
but always and above all, this i've come to see: the succession- the FLOW- will be for me to have succeeded. succession is my success. and succor. without it, i'm famished. frozen and asphyxiated in the hudson, as i was contemplating yesterday. (which raluca completely cracked up about.)
and so this, ladies and gentleman, is progress. i'm typing on these fucking keys. they aren't FUCking biting me, or anything really. it's OK just to write bullshit. here i ahve no citations to worry myself with but citations are just tedium, right? to be done later. (sans the remembering, but at taht 'later' stage when already-written there will always be a way. or the citation will occur.... and half the time - "ADHD is usually not suspected prior to enrollement in school" - it's vague whether or not i even need the fucking citation anyway. that'll be in the post-bard drafts if i ever get the steeliness and simple-mind enough to reconfront. (Is it possible?)
and so i've written all this- and am feeling better, raring, ready!!!!!!!!!!!! and you cna't understand how remarkable this is until you konw how awful- lonely, angsty, hungry, tired-before-i've-started, zero-work-done, pissy and in-turning AWful- the last three days have been. and now my angst has faded, but i didn't even sweat, fater my fortyfive minutes of running, my first gym-visit all semester, and probably about my third since two springs ago. (oh TIMe...)
and have i btiched, as i so determinedly intended, about how hellish thics time has been and IS, how awful be this "FUCking cold!!" (channeling Lewis Black...)... how i'm so sick of this FUCk-ing campus... how my whole life is "a FUCKing circle, a fucking CIRcle~!!"? this i was literally cursing, shouting outloud to that sting-y and bitter air- as i have NEVER before done...- to NO one (that i know of... poor pitied fools...) along the downhill ludlow-new-science-center path last night. it was upon leaving my keys behind, and realziing i missed tegh bus and had to wait another hour for food-- my later relayance of which, to raluca, warranted a half-hour of side-splitting laughter.
have i even given any of the aborrent details of today? of the past 48 or 72 ungodly hours? have i bitched for one minute about my rampant cramping, the blood-flood, just unleashed- so mercifully- today? (whioch i've come to think of as recompense to our fecundity-goddess for not popping out BABIes more frequently, like uterii are evidently supposed to do. a most retarded goddess for has she not come out of her barbiturated stupor to see that for teh past two fucking hundred years we've not NEEDED more babies at all?? should i still have to suffer and bleed EVERY 30 days? what about 50 or 60? hell: three moon-cycles?!! how bout that, fertility-goddess? i'll call her myrtle, for "fertile myrtle." ) about the startling realization that running on an elliptical for over 45 minutes still hadn't made me sweat? in which case- THIS fuckingase, right now...- i'm either very thristy and don't realize it or i am working so hard and running so hot in HERE- pointing to my greasy pitiful skull- that it won't even register? that my brain's sweat-settings, like my amygdala and teh rest of my lizard brain in like fashion, is like "no, FUCk you, you had me on overdrive for like tenyears straight, and then you dragged me to central city and franklin avenue, all so sudden... i'm DONe!! yo uain't gettin SHIt from me no more!"
this is what i should exlpain to linda, who'd been so kindly on my case, asking me (those last few days before everyone but me fled campus) how and hwy i'm not freaking out, when there she was, freaking out about her frist chapter not TWO weeks but about 20 weeks prior to her duedate?
but my countdown ("50 weeks... 45 weeks... 30 weeks... 20... 2!!!) has faded. gone great, gratefully anyway, and so life has gone. and- differently, new-beingly- it will hereafter.
so my angst-of-late should take heart. (else lose it, as more and more shit happens, out of Bardland.)
oh it's been so fun, with shits and gigglese alike all here hitting the fan. and there's SOO much more HERE in me witing to write itself... about how weird mind-bodies are (my favorite topic, seemingly) to my father's musical taste, to AVA and her doings (demanding it be HER turn to get in teh tub, not grampa's) to why my arms and legs are so sinewy all of a sudden... (or least i've just realized it, after probalby a while. is it this new way of caffeinating, and winding myself up, maybe? this still-mysterious, almost-releasing state of impending dread-resistance.)
anyway.
here's to the UN-winding. the FLOW, about to unravel, ass to the grindstone.
and i'magonna let go (cuz no lu i havne't let go of taht whole clarity thing... i cna't deal with nuts anymore!),
reLAX, and enjoy the FUCKINg road. bumps and all.
i'm strung high but can get low. and here i'll have it.