Tuesday, April 1, 2008

Something terrible is happening, has happened, which is, sans an unsuitable object it seems I have nothing to write for. How did this happen? I didn't know I was so lyric. I feel depressed. Not at the lack of, but at the apparent fact of. It can't be true. My eros is bored, is sleepy. I'm bored. I'm so busy I can't think, and I'm calling it bored? I like my mind, it must be that which I miss---my not-too-distant, not-too-available mind has vanished in the crush of ridiculous detail. I can't think, therefore I can't love, therefore I can't write, therefore I can't love! not inappropriately, or excessively, or abusively, or goodly, or crushingly, covertly, overtly, wonderfully, fully, adverbially, slowly, embarrassedly, endlessly. I'm fucked. I'm status quo'd. I'm dead.

Kiss me, wake me


kathryn l. pringle said...

"It seems that literature consists of trying to speak at the moment when speaking becomes most difficult, turning toward those moments when confusion excludes all language and consequently necessitates a recourse to a language that is the most precise, the most aware, the furthest removed from vagueness and confusion--"

"This is the mystery: I am unhappy, so I sit down at my table and write, "I am unhappy." How is this possible? This possibility is strange and scandalous to a degree."

i'm reading blanchot. a lot. so this is the only kind of kiss i have in my pocket right now.

at least it is french?

suzanne said...

thanks kate. that's a good first kiss: foreign tongue but the text is familiar.

maybe it's the reading I miss.

you definitely i miss.

Alli Warren said...

I had similar thoughts on BART this morning.

Brian Dean Bollman said...

This used to be my life. I still feel this way sometimes, but it usually passes fairly quickly.

How nice it would be to be able to wake someone from that.