It Takes a Muscle to Fall in Love
Here I go again.
I've spent the past months in an amorphous sludge. Just logged back in here to discover the beginnings of a journal entry I'd forgotten I ever started. It was timely then, but no longer. Too earnest to discard entirely, so off it goes into a Google doc I can comfortably neglect like all the rest.
Suddenly it's summer again. Cusp of June, bugs buzzing about, the heat deliciously oppressive. I've been thinking and feeling lots of things without finding the proper space to give them form. What better place for all that, really, than my quiet confessional here on the internet. This written record of many a flowery year.
Several things are happening in tandem currently. It feels mostly unrelated, but who knows? There are more than likely a few connective tissues.
1) Book translation contract. A comfortable sum just arrived in my bank account on Friday. Pressure's on, but I'd wanted this for so long. Plus, it helps keep my mind off my abysmal "creative practice."
2) Hong Kong and Shenzhen. Flying out for business business related to my all-too-real desk job. Feeling excited, wary. But this, too, was something I'd hoped would come to be. Perhaps it can be the beginning of a realignment, reenergizing the career I've haphazardly built with dalliances of the international persuasion. In some way, it is closer to what I ultimately want to do. (Which is write, ostensibly.)
3) A period of readjustment. Gone are the days of drinking (and otherwise) until ungodly hours. A healthy and necessary step, supported by my domesticity with C. Yet it does not come without its challenges. Occasionally wish I had more time/money/energy to go back to therapy to tease it all out. The tendency to indulge, the desire for desire, the simultaneous attraction to and shunning of such experiences.
4) I guess this is where writing comes in handy.
5) Could it be that my Long March is yielding some reward? That I am on track and on target? I'd like to take confidence in as much. But I also worry.
6) There are some very specific things that I need to write longform, whether in here or not: the brother I never had. The era of "My Heart Will Go On" in China and sexual awakening. Inherited trauma and inherited loneliness. My parents in Europe. Being in-between, always and everywhere.
Sigh. At least this is a start.
After writing this entry, I found myself, as per usual, going back and editing here and there for my imagined, imaginary audience.
At least this is a start. Again.
I've spent the past months in an amorphous sludge. Just logged back in here to discover the beginnings of a journal entry I'd forgotten I ever started. It was timely then, but no longer. Too earnest to discard entirely, so off it goes into a Google doc I can comfortably neglect like all the rest.
Suddenly it's summer again. Cusp of June, bugs buzzing about, the heat deliciously oppressive. I've been thinking and feeling lots of things without finding the proper space to give them form. What better place for all that, really, than my quiet confessional here on the internet. This written record of many a flowery year.
Several things are happening in tandem currently. It feels mostly unrelated, but who knows? There are more than likely a few connective tissues.
1) Book translation contract. A comfortable sum just arrived in my bank account on Friday. Pressure's on, but I'd wanted this for so long. Plus, it helps keep my mind off my abysmal "creative practice."
2) Hong Kong and Shenzhen. Flying out for business business related to my all-too-real desk job. Feeling excited, wary. But this, too, was something I'd hoped would come to be. Perhaps it can be the beginning of a realignment, reenergizing the career I've haphazardly built with dalliances of the international persuasion. In some way, it is closer to what I ultimately want to do. (Which is write, ostensibly.)
3) A period of readjustment. Gone are the days of drinking (and otherwise) until ungodly hours. A healthy and necessary step, supported by my domesticity with C. Yet it does not come without its challenges. Occasionally wish I had more time/money/energy to go back to therapy to tease it all out. The tendency to indulge, the desire for desire, the simultaneous attraction to and shunning of such experiences.
4) I guess this is where writing comes in handy.
5) Could it be that my Long March is yielding some reward? That I am on track and on target? I'd like to take confidence in as much. But I also worry.
6) There are some very specific things that I need to write longform, whether in here or not: the brother I never had. The era of "My Heart Will Go On" in China and sexual awakening. Inherited trauma and inherited loneliness. My parents in Europe. Being in-between, always and everywhere.
Sigh. At least this is a start.
After writing this entry, I found myself, as per usual, going back and editing here and there for my imagined, imaginary audience.
At least this is a start. Again.