I'll stand up for you until my knees bend over
To grit on
There is the realization, of course, that nothing is at it seems and everything is as it never was. Do you think, as I do (as I must), that there is something more to life? I'm not talking about God, or gods, or any pluralization or capitalization therein of anything like that, but don't you think that it's all too perfect, too nice, too ordered to be accidental? I like to think that way. Maybe it's out of laziness, or fear, but I have to accept some magical element to my life or everything is so droll, so unordered--and then what is there to fight for? Myself? Hardly.
And there is something to that; that there is sophistication in the written word that is non-existent in other art forms. I truly believe that writing is the single most refined, difficult, and useful form of art; visual art is just one perspective; music is technical and difficult to understand; sculpture is monumental But words are just that-words, small, particles, and in and of themselves indivisible from their own meaning. I do not care what the theorists think, that the signifier is different from the sign or any such nonsense, or that words have no inherent power other than what society has given them. Give to me, I say, a word that is powerless and I will show you how it can dismantle everything you believe in, everything you care about, or in some way augment your understanding of what it is to be YOU so much that you will weep a little, you will live a little. Or maybe I'll just drone on pretentiously in an online journal that nobody reads.
Another year past in eight days and I'll be done, free from Lubbock for a week--but I am home here. That's the damndest part of all of this. I'm home now. But I wonder--did I ever feel at ease in Fayetteville? In Jonesboro? In Memphis? When did I feel anything but the overwhelming, compacting pressure to be something else? To be a new thing?
Had a good talk with Kimi tonight about the nature of my anxiety--poor Kimi, she has to listen to me ramble sometimes when what I should be doing is bringing that anxiety and rambling and fear and need for understanding here and crystallize it and put it on display and hope it shines the right color when I turn it the right way. I think I care too much about what other people think. That's just how it is for me sometimes.
Tomorrow begins two days of Hell, two days of not caring about anything but things I don't really care about because I see academia as something so drastically flawed that I--someone, anyone--need(s) to fix, that I know I will never fix.
There is the realization, of course, that nothing is at it seems and everything is as it never was. Do you think, as I do (as I must), that there is something more to life? I'm not talking about God, or gods, or any pluralization or capitalization therein of anything like that, but don't you think that it's all too perfect, too nice, too ordered to be accidental? I like to think that way. Maybe it's out of laziness, or fear, but I have to accept some magical element to my life or everything is so droll, so unordered--and then what is there to fight for? Myself? Hardly.
And there is something to that; that there is sophistication in the written word that is non-existent in other art forms. I truly believe that writing is the single most refined, difficult, and useful form of art; visual art is just one perspective; music is technical and difficult to understand; sculpture is monumental But words are just that-words, small, particles, and in and of themselves indivisible from their own meaning. I do not care what the theorists think, that the signifier is different from the sign or any such nonsense, or that words have no inherent power other than what society has given them. Give to me, I say, a word that is powerless and I will show you how it can dismantle everything you believe in, everything you care about, or in some way augment your understanding of what it is to be YOU so much that you will weep a little, you will live a little. Or maybe I'll just drone on pretentiously in an online journal that nobody reads.
Another year past in eight days and I'll be done, free from Lubbock for a week--but I am home here. That's the damndest part of all of this. I'm home now. But I wonder--did I ever feel at ease in Fayetteville? In Jonesboro? In Memphis? When did I feel anything but the overwhelming, compacting pressure to be something else? To be a new thing?
Had a good talk with Kimi tonight about the nature of my anxiety--poor Kimi, she has to listen to me ramble sometimes when what I should be doing is bringing that anxiety and rambling and fear and need for understanding here and crystallize it and put it on display and hope it shines the right color when I turn it the right way. I think I care too much about what other people think. That's just how it is for me sometimes.
Tomorrow begins two days of Hell, two days of not caring about anything but things I don't really care about because I see academia as something so drastically flawed that I--someone, anyone--need(s) to fix, that I know I will never fix.