March 18th. Thoughts.

I'm too stupid for my own good. I have to write this all in one go because god knows I can't handle opportunities to edit. Nothing will ever be perfect enough but I feel like getting something off my head.

I haven't blogged in ages. I don't really know why I stopped, or why I started, or why I'm re-starting. It's all a matter of the little unimportant idiocies that added up build a life. My only hope is the same reason why the slowest person in a trio (in this case, Gimli) doesn't get left the fuck behind: the adaptation of pace to correct perceived deficiencies as they develop. And maybe something about cinematic intra-film logic. But then we could always blame John Ronald Reuel first, right?

Part of that of course is that Legolas and Aragorn slow down and stop occasionally. Does the same hold true in life? The jury's still out. "We've got our rope neckties. The light fixture, shedding sawdust, keeps us hanging on."

So I'm angry. Every mannequin with dyed hair and decent shoes is a life-raft. Too bad I'm no Szut. Or at least, if I am, I'm dying in the ocean without remorse. Does the fact that I got to fly a fighter plane make it okay? Or is it enough to get shot down by the Tintins of the world? Is reading fiction any stupider than reading one's life into it? And does the quality, or the maturity of the underlying thematic elements, factor into that?

Fuck. I was thinking, earlier. I think I like being confused by art because it means I don't have to bullshit my perception. "The Bank Robbery" by Steven Schutzman. "The Benefits of Thinking Out Loud" by A Wilhelm Scream. "Paprika" and parts of "Manhattan." The shit in the new collection at the MAC by Geoffrey Farmer. I can just sort of lose myself in the beauty and not psycho-analyze it to death. I'm fighting growing up.

Is that going to come up, in my therapy sessions? How old I feel? Or rather, how young I feel? Am I going to feel bad that I can talk about myself and my perceived personal problems for hours and hours on end? Will whoever has to listen to me talk about the stupid things I say to his or her friends over dinner in black and white a few nights later? I do and I don't hope so.

Am I ever going to be able to keep writing my poetry? Will "Windswept" ever take shape? And is it okay if it doesn't? What about submission and both of its meanings? And on that token, will I ever be able to write a sestina? Hopefully we'll find that one out sooner than later. But that leads to another question: Will I ever be a good student?

And will that ever even matter? So.

So I'm angry. Apparently that's obvious. I guess my obviousness filter is completely off. I just want honest opinions from everybody about myself. Is being that self-involved analogous to insanity? I'm afraid of the consequences of letting myself stop long enough to be studied. If it's not medical then I'm out of a crutch and I'm out of the illusion that I'm functional regardless. At least that means I don't have to consider how much brain shit is like or unlike "a broken elbow" or whatever stupid shit Dr. Karayan told me. I don't want to suggest that my elbow isn't as complicated as my brain (it isn't) but come on. My elbow doesn't govern all that much, in the end.

Anyway. It's late. The last track has stopped playing. I wish I could write fiction this fast, these days. I wish I could make what I'd just written fiction, even. That would be something. If only I could exorcise my demons by writing about them.

If that were possible then probably nobody would know how to write. You gotta pick your battles.

In my dreams I'm giving a reading in the basement of the MMFA and all the questions are getting asked by people I know. I only ever want to be famous to impress people I've already met. Maybe I should be a fireman after all.

My dreams would all be about pulling myself out of burning buildings. Hah.