*Crystalline* I Think A Lobotomy Would Do Me Good.
I hate my head. When I rush-write, the words jerk on little knots that I have to stop and smooth and soothe. Goodbye, original word choices that would be good in another context, but not this one, so I'm leaving you for another word choice. (Maybe...maybe we could see each other sometime? There's this really nice hotel...)
It's difficult, because without the 'right' energy and time, I feel like I'm running a word harem. I can't sort them out, but I want them all, all at once, and oh, it feeels soooo goood, oohhh woooords, yesssss.
...
Am I on doke or what?
So I was supposed to post my conversion narrative online by eight tonight, but I fucked up and was fucked over, and I ended up posting an incomplete THING! at 10:40.
First, my Word document was inexplicably corrupted and I lost patches of my essay. Next I lost the cerebral glue that was fixing my thoughts in logical succession.
True, my peer revision group all nodded enthusiastically when I had suggested that perhaps our drafts would be extremely drafty. And the professor expects dysfunctional writing.
*HEAVE SIGH HO* I like writing and editing to the point where I feel that the piece is complete (whole within me), and then submit it to an audience, and then consider a revision. In this way do I distinguish between editing and revising.
I don't care what others think of this method, but it is unrealistic given the syllabus that is my life. I do have other problems that are, ironically, hard to articulate.
I don't (ugh) like to write about serious life-changing events--and formal diction enhances this dislike--for public perusal because it was made an aversion. It's remarkably similar to why I can't stand those round, striped peppermints: once I ate too many and then I threw up.
Once there was a close friend who I had met in grade school. Close friend was/still is a good person, but over the years gave me too many disturbing pseudo-psychoanalyses, too many sobbing breakdowns, illogical tantrums, hurtful accusations for me to function within. She wanted everything to be profound, everyone to have secrets and denials. If something or someone was outside her perception, she would attack it. It was a strange paranoia, where she was the center and the victim, falling apart until it could be reordered again in her vision.
I wondered if I could adapt myself to it all--was I exaggerating, imagining this? Was I trying to make it more profound than it was?
I didn't think so. Eventually, I shut down in the face of it; I couldn't respond. It was mostly unconscious, I now think, but at the same time I was holding on to the friendship, trying to renew it until that one decisive moment.
Our friendship, it seems, was so sustained by our earlier years of genuine happiness, a real connection, that those memories had lifted us away from a simple truth. It's so fucking corny and so fucking ironic, but the friendship had become a denial of itself. Of course we had changed as we grew older and through that, we were over.
I'm making it sound like a mutual realization. LOL, but really it was an ultimatum. I'm not sure if I've written about it here--or have I just told you, Megan?
Anyway, she sent me an email explaining to me the state of our friendship, demanding that I make certain changes if I wanted to "maintain" it.
And then I let it go.
It wasn't healthy. Writing lends it more power than it should, but it was/is a part of my life. It it it. More than I can say--but why?
The "aversion" or whatever is just part of the problem. Is it even a problem? It's inherent in me: I don't play around with "profound"; I don't point my finger at it. I don't like absolutes. I hate having to declare them. Definitions of the abstract already hover around me in sickening clumps. It's why I'm ambivalent to even the word "agnostic." I can't own it, a separate thing collecting assumptions and fingerprints.
...
THEREFORE, I no longer want this head.
Um, where do these go?:
Today I hit myself in the eye with a pink sock.
The girl in front of me in class smelled strongly of onions. I don't like onions.
It's difficult, because without the 'right' energy and time, I feel like I'm running a word harem. I can't sort them out, but I want them all, all at once, and oh, it feeels soooo goood, oohhh woooords, yesssss.
...
Am I on doke or what?
So I was supposed to post my conversion narrative online by eight tonight, but I fucked up and was fucked over, and I ended up posting an incomplete THING! at 10:40.
First, my Word document was inexplicably corrupted and I lost patches of my essay. Next I lost the cerebral glue that was fixing my thoughts in logical succession.
True, my peer revision group all nodded enthusiastically when I had suggested that perhaps our drafts would be extremely drafty. And the professor expects dysfunctional writing.
*HEAVE SIGH HO* I like writing and editing to the point where I feel that the piece is complete (whole within me), and then submit it to an audience, and then consider a revision. In this way do I distinguish between editing and revising.
I don't care what others think of this method, but it is unrealistic given the syllabus that is my life. I do have other problems that are, ironically, hard to articulate.
I don't (ugh) like to write about serious life-changing events--and formal diction enhances this dislike--for public perusal because it was made an aversion. It's remarkably similar to why I can't stand those round, striped peppermints: once I ate too many and then I threw up.
Once there was a close friend who I had met in grade school. Close friend was/still is a good person, but over the years gave me too many disturbing pseudo-psychoanalyses, too many sobbing breakdowns, illogical tantrums, hurtful accusations for me to function within. She wanted everything to be profound, everyone to have secrets and denials. If something or someone was outside her perception, she would attack it. It was a strange paranoia, where she was the center and the victim, falling apart until it could be reordered again in her vision.
I wondered if I could adapt myself to it all--was I exaggerating, imagining this? Was I trying to make it more profound than it was?
I didn't think so. Eventually, I shut down in the face of it; I couldn't respond. It was mostly unconscious, I now think, but at the same time I was holding on to the friendship, trying to renew it until that one decisive moment.
Our friendship, it seems, was so sustained by our earlier years of genuine happiness, a real connection, that those memories had lifted us away from a simple truth. It's so fucking corny and so fucking ironic, but the friendship had become a denial of itself. Of course we had changed as we grew older and through that, we were over.
I'm making it sound like a mutual realization. LOL, but really it was an ultimatum. I'm not sure if I've written about it here--or have I just told you, Megan?
Anyway, she sent me an email explaining to me the state of our friendship, demanding that I make certain changes if I wanted to "maintain" it.
And then I let it go.
It wasn't healthy. Writing lends it more power than it should, but it was/is a part of my life. It it it. More than I can say--but why?
The "aversion" or whatever is just part of the problem. Is it even a problem? It's inherent in me: I don't play around with "profound"; I don't point my finger at it. I don't like absolutes. I hate having to declare them. Definitions of the abstract already hover around me in sickening clumps. It's why I'm ambivalent to even the word "agnostic." I can't own it, a separate thing collecting assumptions and fingerprints.
...
THEREFORE, I no longer want this head.
Um, where do these go?:
Today I hit myself in the eye with a pink sock.
The girl in front of me in class smelled strongly of onions. I don't like onions.