Friday, September 12, 2008

six page love letters and other minor disasters

the question is, do you send them? do you post them? do you break them into several thousand post secrets? erm, not that I do that. nope. don't send to nope. not me. never. never never.

I sit here in a sea of debris and crises large and small. I sit here on the floor with our baggage and our boxes and our emotional disarray and our art. And I think. Fuck. How is it that I believe? How is it that I still believe in this disaster? This permanency this love this monogamy this reality? What kind of horrid programing do I have that the routine of cleaning house in the morning makes me feel complete? That washing the dishes makes me feel accomplished? That organizing and cleaning and effiecientizing in a fashion that Henry Ford would be proud of? I actually assembly line everything like a twisted and broken Montessori student; programming.

I'm spending a lot of time reading 2nd and 3rd wave feminism and backlash; it doesn't help my mental state much, but if I want to dissertate, then I need to know more and I don't know enough and only books can help. Only books can help, right now. I'm working on
What is a Wife Worth? and also Sexual Suicide and also Reviving Ophelia and ... and ... and ...

I'm in the midst of a true existentialist crisis and fuck it if all of Camus in French when I couldn't read in French is of any use to me. Oh, in crisis? not recommending French Post Colonial Feminism, p.s. BAD IDEA. I don't know that this amount of reading and thinking and writing is a good thing, though it is educational. I mentioned that following this summer I would need some serious decompression, and I'm still writing stories from THE GRAND ADVENTURE so I suppose that's all well and good?

My wristwatch just declared it midnight in CST. Convenient that I never switched it back. It has its own program of beeping which I do not regulate. There are buttons? It is technology. I will leave it for the maesters and worry about dinner. Midnight snack. Feeding starving artists; yes, I am good at that...

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