right now, i am trying to cycle through my activities with greater rapidity. there are so many goals, so many things that i want to do. at the same time, i think it is important for me to just do "experience" things, like going hiking or stuff like that. things where i am not so actively doing stuff. at least that seems to be a lack i notice. i am also always seeking to do stuff in the yard. weeds are such a hassle for me. is there any way to remove that problem entirely? i think i looked it up before, but each time i try, it doesn't seem to work. i am trying to swear off the addition of chemicals to my yard, just because i think that the run off inevitably heads to the sea, where it creates toxic algal blooms...
*****
i still think about sexuality. the problem of it. i am faithful to my wife, of course, but i think a vital aspect of my psychology revolves around the viability of, the possibility of, and the play of, relations. i mentioned before that there is a blind spot. yes, it continues. it is perhaps not so dramatic as when i was in high school. i can't believe it, but i would always conceive of, fantasize about, a scene in which i would die for someone. it seems as though my life was the only thing i could give up for someone else. i could not relate with anyone on a human level, i was so dehumanized (in many respects, i think i still am)... hmm... i just read a character in dickens's book "a tale of two cities" that reminded me (reminds me) of myself: sydney carlton. he despairs of ever being better than he is. and yet he loves ms. manette, and feels a need to confess his love, while abnegating the possibility of it. i think that really was (maybe is) me... to express one's wants. one's desires, particularly in the erotic realm, it simply was not possible for me. in order to express oneself in that fashion, one has to be so full of oneself, so blind to oneself, that one cannot help but be that. i on the other hand, was perpetually empty and hollow, perhaps because of a hole in my heart. and i was damnably self-aware. am damnably self-aware... that baleful eye (which i attribute to figures like my brother) always stopped things from happening. always stopped me from reaching out. like the eye of sauron. that's why, in a certain sense, i have always needed someone to "save me." i could never express myself. it had to be someone else who disclosed an interest in me first.
i also find it ironic that, were i to ever encounter such a situation, where someone expressed interest in me, there was always something problematic about it... like i didn't believe it, like i was only used to the resistance of the irresistible. not only that, but it felt dirty of me, to take advantage of things. i honestly think that desire only works in a kind of blindness. the way it works for me is when i concentrate on surfaces, on feelings, on actions... i have a desire to please. to create feelings in others. i honestly don't care about my own reactions. the whole point of the game is to bring others to their conclusions. if i do that, i'm happy.
is there something wrong with me?
*****
i like the song "face to face" by siouxsie and the banshees. the beginning, it sounds like a fabric that is translucent; it has waves passing through it, but beneath it there is something else shifting. and then everything moves by some secret wind. secrets, disclosures, obfuscation, deception. i didn't know that it was made for the batman ii movie. i thought it was commandeered by tim burton for that purpose. but when looking at the video, there are cut scenes from the film.
*****
i don't know why, but we always place hope in someone else. maybe it is in our psychology. i train in secret, i always train in secret for some secret moment, but it is for the angels to fulfill this promise. this promise which will never come true. it fascinates me, the way some people, some "actors" and "actresses," are able to fulfill themselves shamelessly. of course, maybe that's not really them, that's not really their hearts. but it might as well be. to bring oneself out to the surface over and over. to be out there, and to control the game without shame, without feeling dirty, without feeling empty. i don't know how to do that.
why am i always preparing for the future, not in an authentic way (like looking at the money), but always in a seemingly pointless way... will i ever write my books? who will ever have the eyes to see my pornographic drawings? who will care? it seems pointless. this life. you are becoming someone for no one to see, for no one to love.
i suppose that's why i have wrestled with this idea of art. like is there such a thing as art for it's own sake? i like a certain feeling, a certain aesthetic feeling, a way of being, a way of holding myself. the feel of cotton, of holed denim jeans and t shirts, clean. the feeling of something not perfect, but deliciously myself. an attitude that is unquestioned, that is sure of its tilted footsteps. there will always be a weapon to kill me, a perfection that i cannot comprehend, but in my moment, in my dances, in my steps, there is a simplicity. a found art. an art of the moment, of circumstance. not an art of perfection, of seeking symmetry, but an embodiment of the asymmetrical and ugly and imperfect... when i feel that way, i feel i could be. i feel like i could be a lover. or anything. but it is because i don't try to be something else.
so much of what i am is not that. i am a consignment to roles, to things i can speak of, and not speak of. of the wary eye over the shoulder, of the ear listening to my speech to make sure it is not misconstrued. being careful not to offend. be careful not to offend. mend mend mend. boxes within boxes. roles within roles. no one forgives the irresponsible person.
okay i think i've done it for tonight.
Tuesday, December 31, 2019
Sunday, December 29, 2019
12/29/2019
i have a routine, but some things snag and take a lot of time... writing 2 pages, for instance, or drawing... so those sort of disrupt my rhythm. i am finding, however, that i seem willing or able to tolerate the difficulties, and sort of just "sit" through them until completion, whereas before, i would simply give up. writing in particular can summon in me this tendency to completely disbelieve and curl in on myself. not that this doesn't happen still... but now it's sort of spaced out by my scheduled routine. so while i'm writing any given 2 page segment, i commit to it. but after a day or two, it might arise in me- or a question might arise in me- to try a restart of a story or something. i've done that a lot with kipapa, and i'm starting a new beginning on kappa. with regards to the latter, although i struggled through 25 or so pages of a story, and actually came to a kind of resolution or ending, upon reflection, i sort of thing that there were many problems with that story. after listening to joyce carol oates, for example, i think i need to pare down the story to its essentials... and as a result, i started the story now at the statement, "i hate my brother," and the subsequent confrontation with the kappa.
a problem i have is trying to determine a perspective or message. what the story is about. without that, it's very difficult to piece together a story. also, i suppose another obstacle would be these endless thoughts in my head, this needlework complexity of "how things are supposed to be." they are at once vague and piercingly specific. things only work in a certain way, after all...
*****
i have imagined writing something more... shall we say, risque? only to get things down on paper. i find it difficult to write about situations where the protagonist directly expresses wants. just as i have difficulty doing so in real life. nothing sounds particularly natural. i think in real life, things either just happen, or they are only mentioned obliquely. there is a blindspot in me to the open expression of violence or lust... it's almost like these essential elements to life are absent in my writing universe... which definitely makes things less authentic and real.
*****
right now, i'm working through (or rather, should i say, listening to) the master class from margaret atwood. to be honest, i've never read any of her works, including the famous "handmaid's tale." maybe at one point i will. in any case, she seems like a far more articulate speaker than joyce carol oates. don't get me wrong, i think that oates had some important insights, perhaps more practical advice... but it seemed she was concerned more with process issues, whereas i think atwood (and to an extent gaiman) seemed to have notions of structure... i'm hoping these masters will help me to unblock myself.
*****
i think i do have a few tangles in me that prevent me from writing authentically... the inability to forgive my brother is one (and perhaps related aggressions towards certain people). and the other is the inability to even "see" what i want. and to express what i want. it is like it is impossible for me to even conceive of a storyline in which the protagonist directly asks for and gets what he or she wants. there is even a trope that i frequently employ in which the protagonist wants to die (sacrifice). it's not so much the generosity of it, as due to a complete lack of creativity: like, i don't know what else to do here, so i think i'll just kill myself.
i also am unsure as to the motivations of authentic female characters. like this erica westering character. why would she want to see ghosts? what's the deal with that?
a problem i have is trying to determine a perspective or message. what the story is about. without that, it's very difficult to piece together a story. also, i suppose another obstacle would be these endless thoughts in my head, this needlework complexity of "how things are supposed to be." they are at once vague and piercingly specific. things only work in a certain way, after all...
*****
i have imagined writing something more... shall we say, risque? only to get things down on paper. i find it difficult to write about situations where the protagonist directly expresses wants. just as i have difficulty doing so in real life. nothing sounds particularly natural. i think in real life, things either just happen, or they are only mentioned obliquely. there is a blindspot in me to the open expression of violence or lust... it's almost like these essential elements to life are absent in my writing universe... which definitely makes things less authentic and real.
*****
right now, i'm working through (or rather, should i say, listening to) the master class from margaret atwood. to be honest, i've never read any of her works, including the famous "handmaid's tale." maybe at one point i will. in any case, she seems like a far more articulate speaker than joyce carol oates. don't get me wrong, i think that oates had some important insights, perhaps more practical advice... but it seemed she was concerned more with process issues, whereas i think atwood (and to an extent gaiman) seemed to have notions of structure... i'm hoping these masters will help me to unblock myself.
*****
i think i do have a few tangles in me that prevent me from writing authentically... the inability to forgive my brother is one (and perhaps related aggressions towards certain people). and the other is the inability to even "see" what i want. and to express what i want. it is like it is impossible for me to even conceive of a storyline in which the protagonist directly asks for and gets what he or she wants. there is even a trope that i frequently employ in which the protagonist wants to die (sacrifice). it's not so much the generosity of it, as due to a complete lack of creativity: like, i don't know what else to do here, so i think i'll just kill myself.
i also am unsure as to the motivations of authentic female characters. like this erica westering character. why would she want to see ghosts? what's the deal with that?
Wednesday, December 25, 2019
Christmas, 12/25/2019
it's again been a while since i've written in this blog. always, at this time of year, i get a bit "resolution-y", so as usual, i've decided to devote myself a bit more to writing. we'll see how far this one goes.
currently, i've been trying to go through a routine in which i take some time to do all of the things that i feel are important to ME. things like writing, of course, but also fitness things and drawing and playing the piano. it's my hope that by keeping this routine, i will at the very least maintain myself as a viable active person. i guess the alternative would be just "giving up," which i'm not ready to do yet.
there are also many projects or goals that i'd like to take care of. i've been on this whole aquaponics shtick, although i haven't exactly been "scientific" about it. i would like to make it so that i can make food for my family at a pretty decent rate, so that it could possibly cut down on our food costs (yeah, right), but also make us more self-sufficient. i need to explore all of this a lot more.
there are some other projects, but i can't think of them off the top of my head...
***
as far as writing is concerned... well, it's been difficult, to say the least. i often wonder if i still have it in me to write. i mean, it's such a chore. i have a tendency to start things off okay, but i quickly begin to write myself into a corner. nothing ever feels particularly "inspired," i suppose. there seems to be such a dichotomy between the freeform, intuitive writing, and the formal writing of a short story. i think the latter emphasizes structure and plot elements and such (with everything "fitting together" and "making sense") versus the stream-of-consciousness stuff that i write whenever i free write. neither hits the mark. what is the mark? the mark is to have something compelling, something that moves. i suppose it is something similar to drawing. the goal is to create an image which has life. which stirs the viewer... and that is difficult to accomplish in any medium.
i think i have also been wrestling with my internal anger, and my inability to forgive my brother. regardless of whether he is forgivable or not, or whether he deserves forgiveness or not, it is really doing a number on me. i think in my head, i have confounded him with EVERYONE. thus, i secretly think everyone around me has the potential to be a real shitbag, and i don't count on or expect anyone to be anything different. i honestly don't care much for most people. i kind of say it like i am the victim, but in reality, i already have a strike against the world because i think it has done me harm, and that it owes me something, it needs to prove something to me. i say i don't expect anything from anyone, but actually, it secretly means that i expect the world to be shitty to me. there's no way around it. and i suppose it isn't fair to the world for me to feel this way.
i'm also encountering this obstacle within, an internal obstacle, of me ever having strong feelings for anything. i've talked about this before. but now, more and more, it is becoming problematic. you can't go through life pretending you don't feel anything about anything. it's a lie. but even if i discern some inklings of feeling within me, i'm finding that it has a hard time getting out. it's almost like it's impossible for me to say what i want. it's almost like i can never get what i want, unless the world asks for it for me. or unless the world grants me it. and i have been lucky in a lot of ways. but it's still not the same as asking or demanding what you want of the world. it's another thing, where it looks like you are being moral or nice or something, but actually, you're telling a lie. it's almost like, you are waiting for the world to give you what you think you deserve. you can say to yourself that you don't deserve anything, but actually, inside, you are roaring for what you want, and you are only pretending when you say you don't deserve it, or that you don't want it. i actually know that i want a lot of things, that in fact some of my desires are insatiable. and i guess i'm okay with that, i have a handle on it. but it still is astonishing how, for example, i cannot conceive of myself asking for something, expressing my own personal desires. it does not work, it is not convincing, as a plot element. i can't put it any other way. it almost seems like in my personal narrative there must be this element of denial. and that is also holding me back.
i don't know if the two are related, but i suspect it is so. this internal hate, and this internal inability to express what i want. i don't know how to resolve it, or if it is even possible at this point in my life to resolve it. i realize that some of the stories i have written are written out of this small-minded hate, and that i need to somehow get over it. it's ironic, but when i write out of hate, it seems i can express myself or that it is possible, because i can cite a grievance, and try to get the world to feel sorry for me. but i can't stand out there and declare my love for something or someone without feeling like it's wrong, like doing so demands some sort of reprisal or revenge or something... i don't know.
currently, i've been trying to go through a routine in which i take some time to do all of the things that i feel are important to ME. things like writing, of course, but also fitness things and drawing and playing the piano. it's my hope that by keeping this routine, i will at the very least maintain myself as a viable active person. i guess the alternative would be just "giving up," which i'm not ready to do yet.
there are also many projects or goals that i'd like to take care of. i've been on this whole aquaponics shtick, although i haven't exactly been "scientific" about it. i would like to make it so that i can make food for my family at a pretty decent rate, so that it could possibly cut down on our food costs (yeah, right), but also make us more self-sufficient. i need to explore all of this a lot more.
there are some other projects, but i can't think of them off the top of my head...
***
as far as writing is concerned... well, it's been difficult, to say the least. i often wonder if i still have it in me to write. i mean, it's such a chore. i have a tendency to start things off okay, but i quickly begin to write myself into a corner. nothing ever feels particularly "inspired," i suppose. there seems to be such a dichotomy between the freeform, intuitive writing, and the formal writing of a short story. i think the latter emphasizes structure and plot elements and such (with everything "fitting together" and "making sense") versus the stream-of-consciousness stuff that i write whenever i free write. neither hits the mark. what is the mark? the mark is to have something compelling, something that moves. i suppose it is something similar to drawing. the goal is to create an image which has life. which stirs the viewer... and that is difficult to accomplish in any medium.
i think i have also been wrestling with my internal anger, and my inability to forgive my brother. regardless of whether he is forgivable or not, or whether he deserves forgiveness or not, it is really doing a number on me. i think in my head, i have confounded him with EVERYONE. thus, i secretly think everyone around me has the potential to be a real shitbag, and i don't count on or expect anyone to be anything different. i honestly don't care much for most people. i kind of say it like i am the victim, but in reality, i already have a strike against the world because i think it has done me harm, and that it owes me something, it needs to prove something to me. i say i don't expect anything from anyone, but actually, it secretly means that i expect the world to be shitty to me. there's no way around it. and i suppose it isn't fair to the world for me to feel this way.
i'm also encountering this obstacle within, an internal obstacle, of me ever having strong feelings for anything. i've talked about this before. but now, more and more, it is becoming problematic. you can't go through life pretending you don't feel anything about anything. it's a lie. but even if i discern some inklings of feeling within me, i'm finding that it has a hard time getting out. it's almost like it's impossible for me to say what i want. it's almost like i can never get what i want, unless the world asks for it for me. or unless the world grants me it. and i have been lucky in a lot of ways. but it's still not the same as asking or demanding what you want of the world. it's another thing, where it looks like you are being moral or nice or something, but actually, you're telling a lie. it's almost like, you are waiting for the world to give you what you think you deserve. you can say to yourself that you don't deserve anything, but actually, inside, you are roaring for what you want, and you are only pretending when you say you don't deserve it, or that you don't want it. i actually know that i want a lot of things, that in fact some of my desires are insatiable. and i guess i'm okay with that, i have a handle on it. but it still is astonishing how, for example, i cannot conceive of myself asking for something, expressing my own personal desires. it does not work, it is not convincing, as a plot element. i can't put it any other way. it almost seems like in my personal narrative there must be this element of denial. and that is also holding me back.
i don't know if the two are related, but i suspect it is so. this internal hate, and this internal inability to express what i want. i don't know how to resolve it, or if it is even possible at this point in my life to resolve it. i realize that some of the stories i have written are written out of this small-minded hate, and that i need to somehow get over it. it's ironic, but when i write out of hate, it seems i can express myself or that it is possible, because i can cite a grievance, and try to get the world to feel sorry for me. but i can't stand out there and declare my love for something or someone without feeling like it's wrong, like doing so demands some sort of reprisal or revenge or something... i don't know.
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