Mumblings from the bloodstorm
The only problem with reading Anaïs is that her best writing is in her diaries--and in turn, that makes me want to get all navel-gazey and blogtastic and rambly myself! Her self-analysis is often lucid--thankfully more lucid now that I've made it to 1942 or so and she's finally starting to realise she's been way too self-sacrificing with that narcissistic manchild Miller which I yelled at her about from the start--and it makes you feel analytical yourself. She's at her best when her analysis turns outwards from her internal ponderings and expands from the personal to the universal and the mystical. She is so aware of how she behaves and how others behave and so aware of all these patterns (for instance, the ways in which people suffocate themselves or make excuses for themselves and stuff) that it hurts--it's exactly the same sort of pain I feel whenever yet another female on the internet puts herself down or another young man just throws his "I am always right" ego out into the world instead of even trying to understand others, never questioning anything and--dear gods, it's exhausting sometimes. She is so wonderfully intelligent and observant that it should be required reading for everyone. Whether you'd find some of her thoughts very simplistic or old-fashioned or dualistic or gender-essentialist or strange about homosexual desires or whatever, there's still so much great stuff in there that it does nourish the mind. Even when I disagree with her, I appreciate the deep and thorough way she explains the world for herself--which is the aim of all great self-reflection and journalling. And the way she never gets stuck in one interpretation either, but that these interpretations are always in flux and that her perspectives are an ever-shifting kaleidoscope, growing and changing as she grows and changes. It's so incredibly refreshing to read that, and add to that the times when you find an echo in her of some very female experiences you've had yourself (but which haven't been written about much because women's writing is so silenced, and often so prudish and self-censored so that women rarely talk about their sexual experiences even now)... it's consoling, like having a friend from several decades away.
I'm slightly frustrated because I'm bleeding and the endometriosis pain is so bad I've had to take really strong painkillers (fucking tramadol) yet again, and those make it more difficult to focus on reading and writing, even if I'm inspired as hell and have plenty of ideas. But it's either typing and reading in a fog or lying in bed in cold sweat and trying to hold my hand to my stomach because it feels it's ripping itself open (again it feels like my left ovary is about to burst through my abdominal lining and rip parts of my colon off as it goes). I started on Devilry 3 yesterday (*crosses herself and mutters*) and it was lucid and beautiful, a dream of Laura's of a childhood memory of Torsten, and even in its incestuous twistedness, it was incredibly beautiful. Again, those two transport me and lift me out of myself, because they're so far from Jaffar and the Princess (who I can understand better). A twisted mirror, like that of the dream you cannot fully explain, but wake up from not only disturbed but oddly content. And then comes the satisfaction of having written something, of having created, that indescribable ecstasy of power flowing out and onto the page, coming to life, taking shape and form... perhaps this is what mothers feel after giving birth; it's a spiritual thing.
I'm sitting here and wondering whether I should try and start writing the next part of the story instead of just editing the opening. The tramadol always gives me some dysphoria and restlessness, and that might work for what Laura will be feeling next (it ain't gonna be pretty), but I would still prefer to write in a more lucid state. It's much harder to try and edit more beauty and poetry into the text *afterwards* because the more you go over it, the more set in stone the text becomes, so it's always best when the poetry comes through the very first time you write something. And as the painkillers cause short-term memory impairment, all these beautiful ideas that are in my head slip from me before I can write them down, because I'm constantly just "bzuh? Where was I again?" and I know that even in my notes, I will have written down only a fraction of all the gorgeous images I've had just before falling asleep, during a wank, in the shower or whatever.
But it's still better than blogging, especially as Anaïs's writing also inspires creation even more than it inspires the reflective, analytical mood. So I should go and try and get something down.
I'm slightly frustrated because I'm bleeding and the endometriosis pain is so bad I've had to take really strong painkillers (fucking tramadol) yet again, and those make it more difficult to focus on reading and writing, even if I'm inspired as hell and have plenty of ideas. But it's either typing and reading in a fog or lying in bed in cold sweat and trying to hold my hand to my stomach because it feels it's ripping itself open (again it feels like my left ovary is about to burst through my abdominal lining and rip parts of my colon off as it goes). I started on Devilry 3 yesterday (*crosses herself and mutters*) and it was lucid and beautiful, a dream of Laura's of a childhood memory of Torsten, and even in its incestuous twistedness, it was incredibly beautiful. Again, those two transport me and lift me out of myself, because they're so far from Jaffar and the Princess (who I can understand better). A twisted mirror, like that of the dream you cannot fully explain, but wake up from not only disturbed but oddly content. And then comes the satisfaction of having written something, of having created, that indescribable ecstasy of power flowing out and onto the page, coming to life, taking shape and form... perhaps this is what mothers feel after giving birth; it's a spiritual thing.
I'm sitting here and wondering whether I should try and start writing the next part of the story instead of just editing the opening. The tramadol always gives me some dysphoria and restlessness, and that might work for what Laura will be feeling next (it ain't gonna be pretty), but I would still prefer to write in a more lucid state. It's much harder to try and edit more beauty and poetry into the text *afterwards* because the more you go over it, the more set in stone the text becomes, so it's always best when the poetry comes through the very first time you write something. And as the painkillers cause short-term memory impairment, all these beautiful ideas that are in my head slip from me before I can write them down, because I'm constantly just "bzuh? Where was I again?" and I know that even in my notes, I will have written down only a fraction of all the gorgeous images I've had just before falling asleep, during a wank, in the shower or whatever.
But it's still better than blogging, especially as Anaïs's writing also inspires creation even more than it inspires the reflective, analytical mood. So I should go and try and get something down.