29 March 2011

March 29, 2011

Sometimes I worry that I’ll run out of things to talk about. That I’ll reach some wall and that’ll be it. I’ll have to take up drawing or something.

I’ve been journaling in the mornings. Just circling around and around ideas until they make more sense, which they usually do. I’ve always written things down to understand them, which can get you into trouble if you’re not careful. People find things.

I’m between projects right now, finishing one and starting another. I have to convince myself that journaling counts towards something. That it means something. In a way, it’s all I really want to do, all I’m capable of doing. I only ever write about myself anyways. What else is there? Anything else is speculation. I know people who create these stories, these characters, these situations, these worlds. Not me, though. I have no imagination.

These books:

Immovable Feast. Adderall Diares. Another bullshit night in suck city. Blue like jazz. A heart breaking work of staggering genius. Happy baby. Bluets. Martyrdom and Artifice.

I think about something Allen Ginsberg said, that the great lie of literature is that it’s supposed to be somehow different — in diction, in subject matter — than our day to day (quotidian) lives.

The lie is that we’re supposed to be more than we are.

 

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