Sometimes I really wish my life was a B-grade 80’s horror flick, and then I look outside and get really worried it’s one of those depressing documentaries PBS makes that has really unnerving humanist undertones and you get so angry at this you clench your jaw and growl and throw your hands up in an exasperated “well, that’s 45 minutes wasted.” But on the bright side, that was also 45 minutes of figuring out what movies you really don’t like watching. I like the movie showing right now, at least so far.
not mine, but appropriate to feelings of mounting sense of anxiety
For a minute, I became an obsessive journal writer.I still don’t know what that means about me and I feel oddly and unnecessarily annoyed by it. To quote Didion, “I’m not sure if any of it matters for my purposes.”
I also didn’t write because I didn’t want writing to turn into writing about depression. The past year and a half of my life have really been about coming to terms with the fact that I am a depressed person. I can deal with that now, which actually makes me quite happy and feel way less sad. It’s also been about becoming ok with writing things about me.
I was becoming very terrified of writing. I found that what I had always enjoyed as a kinetic process was turning into a process by which I would force myself to expose pieces and bits of myself that weren’t ready be exposed. Does that make it (the act of writing) “Art”? Am I forcing myself to this brink because of an anxious curiosity about the state of _______ and how it affects me? What I internalize? I think of Whitman: “I contain multitudes, do I contradict myself?”
Yesterday, I really did just sit on the couch and start crying. When I told my old poetry professor about it and he asked what my family thought I just told him the truth, and the truth is that I didn’t let anybody notice because my crying while sitting on the couch on a perfectly regular, American, suburban southwestern day is not about being noticed. And it is most certainly not about having someone asking you about why you are crying or what is “wrong” with you.
It is about having a disconnect in every part of my body, especially on the outside. It kills me to imagine the “remoteness” of a “real” “connection.” What really kills is the perception that in order to “have” (here: posses, experience) something “real” (what, is this capital T, Truth? Bullshit.) an inordinate amount of distance or pain is required by the person wanting and the desire itself. This, this perception is in itself, fucking stupid. The truth is I feel lied to. And now, I’m writing about either as a way to test myself or as a way to maybe lie to myself further. Continue reading
For about two weeks now I’ve been in the United States. There are lawns, and cars and stars and memories and house parties and bars with good beer. In two weeks I am scheduled to go back out into a world that’s supposed to be, feel, smell, seem “realer.” I’m reading and meeting and breathing and ____ and ______ and _____, ___________ in the ____time.
I am scraping the bottom of yogurt containers until my hand starts to shake out of some hunger to consume everything. And I don’t feel like I’m taking anything in, rather whatever “everything” is as a subject is going through me, wrapping my guts around its ugly iron neck like some stylish boa, trailing them along a highway it’s repurposed as a cat walk. Continue reading