NO BRAIN, NO PAIN
Title from the ineffable Mrs. Clarke
I am lazy today. The wrong sort of lazy. I've always been a wonderful procrasitnator (terrible procrastinator?), and it's strange. I've been getting work done at a good clip. My energies have just been all wrongly dispersed. I haven't been able to sit through the two hour piano practices I was achieving (and enjoying!) a couple of weeks ago. I haven't wanted to really kill myself writing a poem like I did when Clarkey was around. (She's my writing teacher, and she's back. It's sublime. She inspires me like no other teacher has. To write). I've barely wanted to bike around. Of course, all of those things were accompanied by a sort of langurous disregard for my actual work, which is now getting done.
I'm never sure what's worth it. I've slept little this week because I've tried to write, saying that art is more worthy than sleep. Hasn't got me anywhere, I don't think. Relationships, too. I've been lazy with those. And a coward. Written down as:
I wonder if I've written too much poetry
and wonder too, why every metaphor I've chosen for myself
fails to imply you.
Man, I am such an emo kid. It's not even funny.
*grins*
Me says:
You are the wellspring of self-confidence. How could you be insecure?
George says:
About a girl.
George says:
Only that and always that
Me says:
Well, tell me a story.
Me says:
As you probably know, all good stories start with a woman.
George says:
It's true
George says:
All good people do too
Conversation with good friend. It went on. He's having problems with being DESPERATELY attracted to a woman - a nerdy-earnest type - who absolutely is not reciprocating. He's like me, in relationships: response driven.
ARGH. Insane mother attack. For some reason, she can't sleep when I'm ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HOUSE TYPING.
GOod evening.
I am lazy today. The wrong sort of lazy. I've always been a wonderful procrasitnator (terrible procrastinator?), and it's strange. I've been getting work done at a good clip. My energies have just been all wrongly dispersed. I haven't been able to sit through the two hour piano practices I was achieving (and enjoying!) a couple of weeks ago. I haven't wanted to really kill myself writing a poem like I did when Clarkey was around. (She's my writing teacher, and she's back. It's sublime. She inspires me like no other teacher has. To write). I've barely wanted to bike around. Of course, all of those things were accompanied by a sort of langurous disregard for my actual work, which is now getting done.
I'm never sure what's worth it. I've slept little this week because I've tried to write, saying that art is more worthy than sleep. Hasn't got me anywhere, I don't think. Relationships, too. I've been lazy with those. And a coward. Written down as:
I wonder if I've written too much poetry
and wonder too, why every metaphor I've chosen for myself
fails to imply you.
Man, I am such an emo kid. It's not even funny.
*grins*
Me says:
You are the wellspring of self-confidence. How could you be insecure?
George says:
About a girl.
George says:
Only that and always that
Me says:
Well, tell me a story.
Me says:
As you probably know, all good stories start with a woman.
George says:
It's true
George says:
All good people do too
Conversation with good friend. It went on. He's having problems with being DESPERATELY attracted to a woman - a nerdy-earnest type - who absolutely is not reciprocating. He's like me, in relationships: response driven.
ARGH. Insane mother attack. For some reason, she can't sleep when I'm ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HOUSE TYPING.
GOod evening.