|Wednesday, June 25th, 2003|
3:15p - Being and Nothingness, or What The Fuck Is Up With All This Rampant Existentialism?
You know, now I KNOW I'm not bi-polar. I would have snapped out of this constant state of Ennui and Angst (and other spiritual social diseases) by now if I was.
I miss my faith. The last entry, when I alluded to the classic late night exhortation to parents (that they needed to be ASKED where there children were at 11 PM is a bit scary on so many levels, and one that they stopped only because the reasons you wouldn't know only get more sinister with each passing year... but I digress!) I was asking it of myself. Why did my gods abandon me? Or, if you look at it as a "as without, so within" algorithm, why did I push them away from me?
I keep picking up the phone to call someone, and then find myself, fingers poised above the buttons, even more lost and confused. Who am I calling? I suddenly catch myself wondering if that number in "Bruce Almighty" might actually work, and only the thought of accidentally harassing some poor bastard stuck with those 7 digits ("No, Jenny does NOT fucking live here, you morons!").* Calling up a god or goddess, or whatever. A voice from beyond, telling me first hand that this is not the pointless morass of confusion that it seems to be.
Ah, passive voice. I had this professor in college once who HATED passive voice, and made me nuts trying to drive it from every single paper I handed in. He was the only one ever to give me less than a "B" on my writing projects and I resented even as I thought it stretched me. He said "Never" to the idea that it had a place in any writing. Ever. But what if the character demands that level of passivity, that sense of weak will, a lack of any motivational force at all?
I'm lacking it, certainly. I feel myself fading away into it. Not going gently, but dragged down into that bizarre limbo that has to be self-imposed if there is nothing out there to save me from it, or maybe even if there was a heavenly host standing at the ready, prepared to be my cavalry. Am I really waving them off? Has some remnant from my irish catholic past imbued me with a sense of martyrdom that would slap a helping hand away from me?
Ah, interesting synchronicity. Peter Gabriel just came up from several gigs of MP3's, chosen at random from over a thousand songs:
"No fight left or so it seems,
I am a man whose dreams
have all deserted
I've changed my face,
I've changed my name,
but no none wants you when you lose"
Ah, and Kate Bush as the voice of hope, begging, pleading me not to give up.
Why can't I stop crying? It makes it hard to type. I check my bottles, and pills have been consumed. Everyone keeps telling me I'm depressed, thinking that there was some magic bullet. This isn't chemistry (though it is, isn't it? Or is it?), this is self inflicted realism. Or is that a lie, too?
When do the lies end? What is truth?
Has anyone gotten a fucking answer yet?
*867-5309. Even after all these years the number just pops into my head, unbidden. And I have trouble with my own phone number!
current mood: indescribable
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7:10p - And On and On and On and So
A rare second entry for a single day. At least, of late it's rare.
After having a good bawling after my last entry I sat down and began to work on the Book again. "Tourists" has been rattling around my brain for a long time, but I kept getting stuck on the first two/three thousand words. Essentially, I wasn't getting past Chapter One.
The first breakthrough came when I stopped thinking of it in terms of Parts and Chapters and began using the terms "Legs" and "Mile Markers" instead. My second breakthrough came last Monday, when I was complaining about it to Linda Underhill in chat, the whole thing about being stuck. She simply pointed out that maybe I was trying to hard... skip to the bit I knew, and then write the bridge in later.
Unwittingly she unlocked the whole thing for me. I only got in about 200/300 words done that night, but it was enough. Today I cranked another 3000 words with about two hours work. To date the longest single piece of writing I've done is about 12K (excluding this journal, of course). My personal goal is to get The Book past that point, as it's an important psychological barrier. Knowing that Roni's roomie Gene has made as much progress as he has on his work is a bit of a motivator: I have a lot less work to do than Gene, so maybe I should stop my whiny little pity party and get down to it. Four hours a day isn't that much. Even if I don't feel like writing, I need to start FORCING myself to sit and churn, baby, churn.
I want to get the First Leg done by the end of July. I want to get the Second done by September, and the third leg done by year's end, giving me what could be the first of a series of books.
I have a whole alternate future in my head right now, and it's a lot of fun. It'll be a lot more interesting once I get it out.
current mood: Almost Hopeful
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