Friday, January 20, 2012

Trying to get my life together

This is not the blog I will be writing from but I feel like I have to post here now. I have a lot of work that I have been trying to throw myself into in the past month. I want to re-introduce my websites to the blogosphere and finish a bunch of small mixed media works. I am also applying to some degree programs to begin an MFA and/or PhD. I have missed traveling very much. Also, I don't know how, if at all, I want to integrate performing into my career. I have been becoming more comfortable with the idea of not having to go onstage to become who I would like to be. Then again, I don't mind discussion panels and... Now's not really the time to go into this in detail, though the words seem to be flowing out of me.

I had gotten a great idea to make a poetic piece about some wonderful experiences I had had last year, but the pattern of my life always seems to be that I must be dropped off of some emotional ledge just when I start being okay with the poetics of historical romance, longing, and desire again. It's like the universe just wants to prove to me that recollecting feelings doesn't get you anywhere. It's difficult to forget how in youth i thought I was strong enough to write with men at heart; but time after cruel time it was smashed home to my heart that shouldn't write anything about any man because the hope and joy get held hostage, and no action or affection is returned. IN fact, the person, no matter how enlightened he seemed to be, always seems to start shrinking from me like I'm a leper or an ogre. WHY BOTHER USING WORDS TO EVOKE WHAT I THOUGHT I WANTED TO IMPRESS UPON A MAN AND AN AUDIENCE IF THE CRUEL MIND OF HUMANKIND INSISTS ON PAYING ME BACK IN SILENCE?

I suppose I should keep typing so that later I can turn this into some philosophical approach to post-postmodern feminism or writerism. But this is exactly the writing that I wanted to cure myself of. It's flowing, I can't think, and someone will inevitably find a reason to mock it, especially since I want to share it right now. But who will read it? REALLY.

I suppose I should hold on to the poem and actually work on it, but I don't understand why my biology insists on making this kind of art. I didn't want to be filled with resentment about it. Anyway, I'll move on to that next. I am okay.

Okay, more later.

OH, NOW I REMEMBER WHAT MY NEXT POINT WAS. That I didn't feel at all like myself without being willing to try to write that type of work. It's horrendous. when I say I wanted to cure myself of writing, I'M NOT JOKING IN THE LEAST. Unfortunately, I can't make that point of view really endure.

1 comment:

Network Geek said...

Even leperous ogres need love. So, I offer you long distance, leperous, ogrish hugs.

No, seriously, I'm sure you'll find that man of yours rattling around somewhere on Manhattan or in the Five Boroughs eventually. Or not. Maybe your work will be defined by the almost perfect man who almost understands you.
Have you ever read or listened to any Pema Chödrön? She's a brilliant Buddhist teacher who always brings me a sense of peace. Her message is one of compassion for others, but also for yourself. Try When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times, or The Places that Scare You: A Guide to Fearlessness in Difficult Times, or Taking the Leap: Freeing Ourselves from Old Habits and Fears. They're all good.

Also? Hang in there. It'll change eventually.