Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Seriously? Seriously.

I'm grumpy tonight.

I was up until 2:30 last night, unable to sleep, worrying about jobs and life and OMG I'M THIRTY and when was the last time I showered? Yeah. So then I was way too tired to go hiking around Muir Woods with my BFF and her family, who are in town for a wedding. So I stayed home, tried to work on my job stuff, revise some poems. I focused on Weave, did some reading. Finished up work for my last class.

I'm up again. I know I won't be tired for a while. If I try to lay there next to Sal, I'll just feel my heart start to beat out of my chest. I'll hear all the things I say to myself during the day, except all at once, in shouting voices.

I get pissed off when people don't take writing seriously.

Writing is work. Good writing. Sometimes we get lucky. We have that inspiration that strikes us like a big, fat, bolt of creative lightning and we run to the bank with that fucker. We take that shit down to the river and baptize ourselves in the ease of it. Or we should. Maybe when we first start writing, we know it's our medium. It feels easier to us than to our peers. But eventually, we all get herded toward one another as we get older. Some of us drop out of the pack because it's not easy anymore. It's grueling. It's late nights, avoiding sleep, three days without showers, where are my benzos? and thank god for whiskey.

I get pissed off when people take themselves too seriously.

There is this culture of irony and strangeness and distance in writing. I wrote a sentence. It's weird. Look at my weird sentence. Isn't it ironic? No. It's not. It's lazy. It's uninteresting. Where is the depth? Where is the connection? Where is the concerto? Where are my benzos? Yeah, we get people who like to put up a front, be cool. I've just never been cool. Like, I'm so uncool, it's pathetic. But I work hard. I write hard.

But then I get pissed at myself for taking everything too seriously. Every. Effing. Thing.

It's becoming clear to me that I will most likely work at the mall if I don't get my shit together this week. I will explode if I don't write a good poem soon. Mediocre even. Soon, I will eat breakfast for dinner and lunch. I'll sleep through breakfast. This is my life. Waking up and avoiding anything that might make me anxious until bedtime. I work in between. I take breaks. Boy I'm tired. But not tired enough to sleep yet.
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