So this is what its come to. A 30-something woman crying her eyes out because she spilled beer onto her Macbook. Will it ever work again? she cries. Will I lose all my graduate essay work, research, MA thesis summer preparation? Not to mention the multitudes of other files as yet unrealized. To blame: persistent fruit fly at beer glass edge. One small swipe spills half a glass into unsuspecting machine. Result? loss of power, loss of "I'm worth more than that, you little French bastard" poem which was going to be sent to the little French bastard. A good poem too, for Christ's sake. Rejection. This is why the beer spilled. A reminder that my life, once I engage in it, is chaos.
To blame (for real): surge of anger at being perpetually lost amid the complex (simple?) world. Forever in a state of engagement, and then, disengagement. Forever the struggle, the turn of phrase, the doubt. The state of unreason, unsettling: the many books I cannot focus enough to read (lack of iron in the blood, it turns out--one explanation at least... another: so many books to read, where to begin? an earlier blood test could have saved me some self-flagulation. on a 20-225 scale of low iron, I have 16. Surprised I'm not comatose).
The sick cats are trying on my patience, arresting my love for them by perpetuating my lack of sleep. Woken up last night by two separate puking events. Why does puking have to be so loud, and involve such drama. I have dramatic cats. No surprise there.
And what of my MA? should I finally decide on a "plausible" thesis, or have any direction on how one actually DOES write a bloody thesis. Impossible task... the problem is, THE PROBLEM IS, I think I will fail, I predict failure, and so I navigate toward the most ridiculous path of all: isolation; paralysis. I cannot fail if in isolation. Nor can I succeed. It is a stalemate. Another thing I fail at: chess. Oh chess, how much like life you are. Dull, lengthy, surprising, unconventional, conventional. I hate you and I'm addicted to you. Your pretty fucking horses. (or perhaps, "stall mate"? def: the inability to move forward due to negative self talk).
Negative self talk is killing me. Physically, the symptoms are out of control. Emotionally, my anger could do me some serious harm. Cognitively, I'm sabotaging my own life. But why? Am I not a nice person, good person? I know what Nietzsche would say. Something about the good in FACT perpetuating the bad. Fucked up. So I'm bad. That explains it.
What to do with this perception I've been given, this interpretive mind, amid all the rest of this chaos is bloody impossible to define. Feeling stuck. And this laptop, containing my words, poems (not that they ACTUALLY matter, poetry tears down the walls of despair and loneliness only to build them up again within the realm of trite verbosity) my research, is broken. Everything breaks. Falls apart. And then gently repositions itself without notice. Surprise, all is well. Is that what Shakespeare had in mind?
I exhaust myself. I need someone to read to me. Let me shut my eyes. I will absorb or I will sleep. Either way, a goodnight.
To blame (for real): surge of anger at being perpetually lost amid the complex (simple?) world. Forever in a state of engagement, and then, disengagement. Forever the struggle, the turn of phrase, the doubt. The state of unreason, unsettling: the many books I cannot focus enough to read (lack of iron in the blood, it turns out--one explanation at least... another: so many books to read, where to begin? an earlier blood test could have saved me some self-flagulation. on a 20-225 scale of low iron, I have 16. Surprised I'm not comatose).
The sick cats are trying on my patience, arresting my love for them by perpetuating my lack of sleep. Woken up last night by two separate puking events. Why does puking have to be so loud, and involve such drama. I have dramatic cats. No surprise there.
And what of my MA? should I finally decide on a "plausible" thesis, or have any direction on how one actually DOES write a bloody thesis. Impossible task... the problem is, THE PROBLEM IS, I think I will fail, I predict failure, and so I navigate toward the most ridiculous path of all: isolation; paralysis. I cannot fail if in isolation. Nor can I succeed. It is a stalemate. Another thing I fail at: chess. Oh chess, how much like life you are. Dull, lengthy, surprising, unconventional, conventional. I hate you and I'm addicted to you. Your pretty fucking horses. (or perhaps, "stall mate"? def: the inability to move forward due to negative self talk).
Negative self talk is killing me. Physically, the symptoms are out of control. Emotionally, my anger could do me some serious harm. Cognitively, I'm sabotaging my own life. But why? Am I not a nice person, good person? I know what Nietzsche would say. Something about the good in FACT perpetuating the bad. Fucked up. So I'm bad. That explains it.
What to do with this perception I've been given, this interpretive mind, amid all the rest of this chaos is bloody impossible to define. Feeling stuck. And this laptop, containing my words, poems (not that they ACTUALLY matter, poetry tears down the walls of despair and loneliness only to build them up again within the realm of trite verbosity) my research, is broken. Everything breaks. Falls apart. And then gently repositions itself without notice. Surprise, all is well. Is that what Shakespeare had in mind?
I exhaust myself. I need someone to read to me. Let me shut my eyes. I will absorb or I will sleep. Either way, a goodnight.
posted by MissWanda at 1:51 a.m.
2 Comments:
don't give up. plod on.... i don't know whether there is much else that one can do.... please don't give up, i am sure your ma thesis will be wonderful....
I had to read this post a couple times because I can't tell you how many times I felt just like this. It was like reading my own stream of consciousness. You don't know me, but I Read your blog often for inspiration. So just know that as one human being to another, one woman to another, keep on going, love. Keep on.
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