(no subject)
my life is a parable. no wait, it isn't. I just made it up. moral of this story is, don't make things up.
my thoughts are no longer coherent, random ideas bounce into my head like haywire particles, bumping into eachother and flying off in opposite directions. i was writing about english just now and the word synchronicity infiltrated my brain. I carefully make choice of the word infiltrate because it has breached the walls of my mind without permission. I do not know what synchronicity is, and when I tried to understand it through wikipedia, i found out it was related to Carl Jung (stirring up memories from grade 10 religions class curiously enough) suffice to say, i was plenty lazy about 2.4 sentences in.
What is beautiful english? what is it about random letters, random symbols born out of the human hand that can string together like glittering christmas lights and inspire some sort of *feeling*. why is it that i can read Gilman's "yellow wallpaper" and become awestruck by the simple way she can spiral me into temporary madness.
" Sometimes I think there are a great many women behind, and sometimes only one, and she crawls around fast, and her crawling shakes it all over."
such an unpretentious line, stripped of misguided eloquence (wallpaper) it just kneels there, pale and bare, naked but for the sheer horror it possesses.
i get unreasonably jealous of the way others can use combine words into flawlessly original expressions. my own rhetoric seems trite and constrained, and my mind is dammed up against all streams of creativity. i want to marry myself to single concepts and maintain fidelity, but there is too much to see and so much to experience. instead, it is all scattered into tiny grains of sand in an endless stretch of beach, my millions of insignicant affairs with ideas. insignificant because they are superficial, because i cannot be faithful long enough to any one of them to get to know them, get close to them, make kisses beautiful and true, love-making fabulous.
this jealousy claws at me, it digs into my skin and leaves long sensitive red lines. i think these scratches stretch across my wrist in a horrible mimicry of the suicidal bites of the razer. they swim upstream to the tips of my fingers. they follow the raised bone of the fingers, climb up the rocky knuckles like mountaineers and gather under my dirty fingernails. there they loom, patiently waiting to creep into my organic pencil or my mechanic keyboard.
creep.crreeeeeeep creep creeep creep. creep. that is a wonderfully chilling word. It is a word that packages neatly all its meaning into itself. it doesn't need other words to spark it into inspiration. the woman in the yellow wallpaper creeps around a lot too. it really really scares me.
none of this is true or real. therefore none of it is beautiful. someday, when my jealousy doesn't write for me, i may be able to write for myself and not under the shadows of something else. Pure, unadulterated me. that is what i want. if i find me, me, me, me, in the world and in the english language, then i know what ideas can fuse tightly against me until we become one and there is no fissure in between.
my thoughts are no longer coherent, random ideas bounce into my head like haywire particles, bumping into eachother and flying off in opposite directions. i was writing about english just now and the word synchronicity infiltrated my brain. I carefully make choice of the word infiltrate because it has breached the walls of my mind without permission. I do not know what synchronicity is, and when I tried to understand it through wikipedia, i found out it was related to Carl Jung (stirring up memories from grade 10 religions class curiously enough) suffice to say, i was plenty lazy about 2.4 sentences in.
What is beautiful english? what is it about random letters, random symbols born out of the human hand that can string together like glittering christmas lights and inspire some sort of *feeling*. why is it that i can read Gilman's "yellow wallpaper" and become awestruck by the simple way she can spiral me into temporary madness.
" Sometimes I think there are a great many women behind, and sometimes only one, and she crawls around fast, and her crawling shakes it all over."
such an unpretentious line, stripped of misguided eloquence (wallpaper) it just kneels there, pale and bare, naked but for the sheer horror it possesses.
i get unreasonably jealous of the way others can use combine words into flawlessly original expressions. my own rhetoric seems trite and constrained, and my mind is dammed up against all streams of creativity. i want to marry myself to single concepts and maintain fidelity, but there is too much to see and so much to experience. instead, it is all scattered into tiny grains of sand in an endless stretch of beach, my millions of insignicant affairs with ideas. insignificant because they are superficial, because i cannot be faithful long enough to any one of them to get to know them, get close to them, make kisses beautiful and true, love-making fabulous.
this jealousy claws at me, it digs into my skin and leaves long sensitive red lines. i think these scratches stretch across my wrist in a horrible mimicry of the suicidal bites of the razer. they swim upstream to the tips of my fingers. they follow the raised bone of the fingers, climb up the rocky knuckles like mountaineers and gather under my dirty fingernails. there they loom, patiently waiting to creep into my organic pencil or my mechanic keyboard.
creep.crreeeeeeep creep creeep creep. creep. that is a wonderfully chilling word. It is a word that packages neatly all its meaning into itself. it doesn't need other words to spark it into inspiration. the woman in the yellow wallpaper creeps around a lot too. it really really scares me.
none of this is true or real. therefore none of it is beautiful. someday, when my jealousy doesn't write for me, i may be able to write for myself and not under the shadows of something else. Pure, unadulterated me. that is what i want. if i find me, me, me, me, in the world and in the english language, then i know what ideas can fuse tightly against me until we become one and there is no fissure in between.