Not so Massive Missive
So, I haven't died or anything.
I've been so busy actually working at my place of work (not to mention that I had been chastised for typing too much; that's right, I can surf all the web I want, but typing, with its intimations of disloyal productivity, is forbidden) that I haven't found time to post. Sorry.
Artist's Way is going smashingly, and I even say this from the exact middle of a week of total media deprivation. No reading, no music, no television, no film. Just me and my gibbering inner voice.
A friend of mine rightly pointed out that avoiding all media is impossible; what it means is that my reading consists of ads and signage (try not reading ads and signage, I dare you) and my listening the bleed from other peoples' headphones (today, a nice techno hi-hat pattern emanating from a cute Japanese girl on the bus). Oh, and the schizophrenics on the Max who soliloquize at some volume.
The music, given my compulsive habits, hasn't been a problem at all. I hear songs in my head all the time anyway. The reading, now that hurts. I can't tell you how many times I've picked up a promising magazine or headline only to have to twist my eyes away in shock. NO READING!
I've decided I can look at pictures, so I have leafed through my book of Blue Note jazz album covers. Other than that, no cheating.
It will be interesting to see how this experiment concludes at my in-laws' house this weekend, with the TV on at air-raid-siren-appropriate decibels. Guess I'll be spending a lot of time outside.
Oh, and K. has undertaken to give up the ol' toob this week in solidarity. I'm proud of her. We plan to break our fast on Sunday night with the new episode of "Desperate Housewives." The monastic life can only go so far.
So what have I learned? I have some very unhealthy habits when it comes to taking in information indiscriminately.
I read while I'm talking to others. I read so I don't have to talk to others.
I spend much more time organizing and fiddling with music than I do actually enjoying it. I read six different reviews of an album to substitute for the experience of listening to it.
I read compulsively and without regard for the quality of the material. I stuff myself with the intellectual equivalent of Ding-Dongs.
As a result, my own thoughts, judgments, opinions and values get mucked up and snowed under by crap. No wonder I sometimes don't even know what I think about something.
Responsibility of the the intellectual or no, it's good to make judgments. It's the only way to manage in this hazy crazy age. And I have had some startlingly clear opinions on things these last few days. Not to mention some vivid-ass dreams.
Much more to tell about this experience later. For now, I can only assert that it SUCKS. Two pair.
I'm allowed to write until my fingers turn blue and twist off, but I'm all tuckered. I'm off to bed to stare at the patterns of light on the wall.
Tomorrow I'm going to go see Dr. Cornel West, which thought makes me want to scream like a Beatlemaniac schoolgirl.
Anyway, just a placeholder to assure you I haven't forgotten my fans. You're the best, yo.
I've been so busy actually working at my place of work (not to mention that I had been chastised for typing too much; that's right, I can surf all the web I want, but typing, with its intimations of disloyal productivity, is forbidden) that I haven't found time to post. Sorry.
Artist's Way is going smashingly, and I even say this from the exact middle of a week of total media deprivation. No reading, no music, no television, no film. Just me and my gibbering inner voice.
A friend of mine rightly pointed out that avoiding all media is impossible; what it means is that my reading consists of ads and signage (try not reading ads and signage, I dare you) and my listening the bleed from other peoples' headphones (today, a nice techno hi-hat pattern emanating from a cute Japanese girl on the bus). Oh, and the schizophrenics on the Max who soliloquize at some volume.
The music, given my compulsive habits, hasn't been a problem at all. I hear songs in my head all the time anyway. The reading, now that hurts. I can't tell you how many times I've picked up a promising magazine or headline only to have to twist my eyes away in shock. NO READING!
I've decided I can look at pictures, so I have leafed through my book of Blue Note jazz album covers. Other than that, no cheating.
It will be interesting to see how this experiment concludes at my in-laws' house this weekend, with the TV on at air-raid-siren-appropriate decibels. Guess I'll be spending a lot of time outside.
Oh, and K. has undertaken to give up the ol' toob this week in solidarity. I'm proud of her. We plan to break our fast on Sunday night with the new episode of "Desperate Housewives." The monastic life can only go so far.
So what have I learned? I have some very unhealthy habits when it comes to taking in information indiscriminately.
I read while I'm talking to others. I read so I don't have to talk to others.
I spend much more time organizing and fiddling with music than I do actually enjoying it. I read six different reviews of an album to substitute for the experience of listening to it.
I read compulsively and without regard for the quality of the material. I stuff myself with the intellectual equivalent of Ding-Dongs.
As a result, my own thoughts, judgments, opinions and values get mucked up and snowed under by crap. No wonder I sometimes don't even know what I think about something.
Responsibility of the the intellectual or no, it's good to make judgments. It's the only way to manage in this hazy crazy age. And I have had some startlingly clear opinions on things these last few days. Not to mention some vivid-ass dreams.
Much more to tell about this experience later. For now, I can only assert that it SUCKS. Two pair.
I'm allowed to write until my fingers turn blue and twist off, but I'm all tuckered. I'm off to bed to stare at the patterns of light on the wall.
Tomorrow I'm going to go see Dr. Cornel West, which thought makes me want to scream like a Beatlemaniac schoolgirl.
Anyway, just a placeholder to assure you I haven't forgotten my fans. You're the best, yo.