I told you I had a dream about a creature that was all legs – something like that – long, long legs, a bouquet of them, and a powerful muscular body at their centre, all terror and frantic flailing. I told you about this creature knocking me around with its limbs, beating me up, throwing me into the sand (to you I said dust) over and over, and each time I found myself with a mouthful of sand (dust), and the creature screeched ‘spit it out, you can’t have it, it’s not yours’, throwing me into a different patch of sand (dust) before repeating its scream.
You made it about writing.
What I didn’t tell you was that I read the poem you wrote likening your ex to an ostrich and yourself to a bed of sand and that I woke up this morning with the line ‘something of you still buried in me’ pounding against my eyelids.
There is a strange consensus – I don’t want to generalise too much so I’ll confine this particular generalisation to the world of Academia – that the things/phases you have been through and have left behind automatically seem miscast in the next gaggle of people (often younger) come to replace you.
In other words, once you cease to be an undergraduate, all undergraduates start to grate on you (or perhaps just on me and the people I know), especially if their way of filling the post, enacting this role of “undergraduate” (an idea, a shell), diverts greatly or even just slightly from your own version from what you remember your undergraduate days being.
And when you cease to be a philosophy postgrad, the whole world of (academic) Philosophy starts to seem like a cult, a closed group you escaped from, are no longer part of; it now behooves you to point out all of this world’s flaws and hypocrisies. I believe there is a technical term for this sort of behaviour: Continue reading
What is so surprising about life, and what also kind of constitutes its grace, is that our minds can be so pleasing to us. The way they use and remember and combine data is exciting, all of it so lovely if we let it, if we don’t cripple ourselves with anxiety, if we accept that alongside our brilliance also lies a lot of necessary darkness and unpleasant impulse.
What I’m trying to say is that some days I am struck by the fact that our minds exist for us, that they deal with the world, our dwelling, in a way that can be pleasing only to us as a species – our art and language games and music cannot evoke for anyone but us what we value in it. Our minds are and function for us, not for dolphins or aliens or dogs but for us, the humans that we are, and that, to me, is extraordinary.
Our minds and the universe – what else is there? […] In our marginal existence, what else is there but the voice within us, this great weirdness we are always leaning forward to listen to?
Mary Ruefle – Someone Reading A Book. In: Madness, Rack, and Honey. Collected Lectures
Doodling is often made easier by distractions. If I have something nearby to soften the sharp tones of my mind, starting a doodle is easier, and bridging those moments of suspension where I fall out of the flow becomes easier, those moments when I finish a segment or line and suddenly find myself staring into the blank space where any new line is possible but I don’t know how to choose which one is ‘right’.
Music distracts me from that fear of doing something wrong by creating a rhythm I can let myself fall into. I can follow the music and use it to quiet the thoughts that come up whenever I stop drawing. This, however, does not work with writing, Continue reading
Like a lot of people who write I own way too many notebooks. I have to stop myself from starting more than I can handle. At the moment, I have three on the go, which is a lot, but I tell myself that they are all for different forms of writing, or rather, for different methods and moods of writing.
One of them is my personal diary in which I record (with less and less gusto, recently) my gripes and complaints about the world, my insecurities, the moments when paranoid thoughts get the best of me. Continue reading
What might be the reason or driving force behind this blog if not my fear, I suppose, that without the MFA – the academic cradle – without a push, without a motivation to write, I might simply not write. I might just sit here and my sense of being a writer – the need to express thoughts in writing – might slowly fade and eventually disappear.