standing up on roller coasters and other inadvisible feats
Clearly, things have not been rolling as well as I thought.
I sit down, I think I have things together and then I disappear into the ether again for a week or so. I feel horrible since I just feel guilty for reneging on the promise I made to myself to talk to you more often. And there's the part of me that just wants to turn in on itself until there is nothing left for me to hurt.
Sadly, I cannot put this mess down to Leonard Cohen.
It's a me thing; and I'm sure you're as fed up with it as I am, when I don't read your posts or talk to people who don't share 50% of their genetic make-up, and I lose track of all the wonderful things you are doing and writing and stitching.
And my world narrows itself smaller and smaller until there isn't much here at all.
I still talk- it's just there is nothing of sense in sentences I can only think two words at a time, and endless non-sequiturs, and that same little thing told again and again. I keep telling myself that it is the medication (if I had any desire to try mind altering drugs... ) and mis-firing neurons and then I start wondering if I am the person I was.
What if this is all that is left of me?
*wibbles* Now I am DEPRESSED more than when I started this. Or maybe just more intense since this is a synthesis of all the crap that has been following me around. This purposeless life where I measure things in stitches and hours. I wanted to write, now all I have is this entry. Which is, as you will understand, pretty crap. I have the urge - I sat on the couch like a statue yesterday, taking nothing in and just staring at the work in my hands.
Everything is telling me that nothing survives. We all boil down to nothing.
Not my stitching, or my novel or anything. I feel like I am being haunted by Philip Larkin. "our almost insitinct/ almost true/ all that survives of us is love" (and clearly not my ability to punctuate, line or quote poetry). And somewhere beneath that there's this little burning ember that is on the roof of an apartment building, somewhere in Toronto where the rain cuts you like the fish-hook leaves of the catcus concealed under the breath of angels. And I am there because Renfield is there, leaning into the wind and asking what will be of his life... and his starvation for meaning disguised as lust and nostalgia. And in that wind, it catches in the feathers of his wings and life soft aeorofoils the whind wants to lift him up and into the night to run among the stars of a heaven he scarcely believes in.
Is this why my output went through the roof back in that year in the Dorm of Doom, where everything turned inside out before fading to an intense nuclear white as I lost every shread of meaning and lived on chocolate and the clock counted only minutes and day became night...
(I think the answer is; fuck, yes. I just made no sense, wrecked my degree and tore my mind apart. I did, however, meet some very interesting people along the way)
Oh, and Leonard Cohen has given me a chapter title with actual meaning - this opening chapter is "the Lonely Side of Intimacy" and it now sets everything out like an unfolding russian doll in seven dimensions. And I am really pleased that Benton is no longer a non-person. I wanted to send some of that to jsc, I just really wanted to get together and write the rain (what a woman says in love/ can be writen in the wind and swift flowing water) and illuminate everything in the darkness and freedom of a storm. Pathetic fallacy and all that - I meta as I write, which might explain my telephone manner (bizarre) and definitely the brane hate.
This whole entry is a pean to how much writing influences my thought processes and how I can write myself out of one corner into the frying pan and mix aphorisms in a gnerally confusing manner. Anyway, this is not a story (or the infamous novel) and there is no need for an end (I hope).
****
Happy thought: Leonard Cohen circa 1988 looks hot (thank you, bbc 4)
I sit down, I think I have things together and then I disappear into the ether again for a week or so. I feel horrible since I just feel guilty for reneging on the promise I made to myself to talk to you more often. And there's the part of me that just wants to turn in on itself until there is nothing left for me to hurt.
Sadly, I cannot put this mess down to Leonard Cohen.
It's a me thing; and I'm sure you're as fed up with it as I am, when I don't read your posts or talk to people who don't share 50% of their genetic make-up, and I lose track of all the wonderful things you are doing and writing and stitching.
And my world narrows itself smaller and smaller until there isn't much here at all.
I still talk- it's just there is nothing of sense in sentences I can only think two words at a time, and endless non-sequiturs, and that same little thing told again and again. I keep telling myself that it is the medication (if I had any desire to try mind altering drugs... ) and mis-firing neurons and then I start wondering if I am the person I was.
What if this is all that is left of me?
*wibbles* Now I am DEPRESSED more than when I started this. Or maybe just more intense since this is a synthesis of all the crap that has been following me around. This purposeless life where I measure things in stitches and hours. I wanted to write, now all I have is this entry. Which is, as you will understand, pretty crap. I have the urge - I sat on the couch like a statue yesterday, taking nothing in and just staring at the work in my hands.
Everything is telling me that nothing survives. We all boil down to nothing.
Not my stitching, or my novel or anything. I feel like I am being haunted by Philip Larkin. "our almost insitinct/ almost true/ all that survives of us is love" (and clearly not my ability to punctuate, line or quote poetry). And somewhere beneath that there's this little burning ember that is on the roof of an apartment building, somewhere in Toronto where the rain cuts you like the fish-hook leaves of the catcus concealed under the breath of angels. And I am there because Renfield is there, leaning into the wind and asking what will be of his life... and his starvation for meaning disguised as lust and nostalgia. And in that wind, it catches in the feathers of his wings and life soft aeorofoils the whind wants to lift him up and into the night to run among the stars of a heaven he scarcely believes in.
Is this why my output went through the roof back in that year in the Dorm of Doom, where everything turned inside out before fading to an intense nuclear white as I lost every shread of meaning and lived on chocolate and the clock counted only minutes and day became night...
(I think the answer is; fuck, yes. I just made no sense, wrecked my degree and tore my mind apart. I did, however, meet some very interesting people along the way)
Oh, and Leonard Cohen has given me a chapter title with actual meaning - this opening chapter is "the Lonely Side of Intimacy" and it now sets everything out like an unfolding russian doll in seven dimensions. And I am really pleased that Benton is no longer a non-person. I wanted to send some of that to jsc, I just really wanted to get together and write the rain (what a woman says in love/ can be writen in the wind and swift flowing water) and illuminate everything in the darkness and freedom of a storm. Pathetic fallacy and all that - I meta as I write, which might explain my telephone manner (bizarre) and definitely the brane hate.
This whole entry is a pean to how much writing influences my thought processes and how I can write myself out of one corner into the frying pan and mix aphorisms in a gnerally confusing manner. Anyway, this is not a story (or the infamous novel) and there is no need for an end (I hope).
****
Happy thought: Leonard Cohen circa 1988 looks hot (thank you, bbc 4)