Sometimes I think the most powerful force in the universe is love.
Sometimes I think the most powerful force in the universe is loneliness.
Sometimes I think too much.
Sometimes I feel too much
I can’t honestly think of a time that I stopped thinking or feeling.
I can’t think of a time when I wasn’t thinking about love or loneliness.
Sometimes, I’d like to get out of the memory business.
Odd.
I’ve never been asked to write an essay about why I took a particular class before, but I just did— 2,000 words worth. Still fighting the depression. Writing workshops tomorrow, in the classes I’m teaching that I need to produce handouts for. More material to read for other classes. Got up early and did laundry, oh joy.
I hesitate to tell people what I’m feeling when things get this dark. Synthesis has his fingers on the pulse of many threads regarding self-reflective blogging. There is an aspect of “writing oneself into existence” but there is also an element of “exorcising the demons.” Both elements are a part of the writing process itself, not just blogging. So the web has the potential to make people more scattered and chaotic than ever before— if this is the case, why did it take the addition of a temporal element (blogs) to make it come together as a mass communication medium? Writing is usually an attempt to force cohesion where it didn’t exist before. It summons the angel in us all, in the desire to reach out and touch our fellow humans. But what if you don’t want to summon your demons?
“If I exorcise my devils, my angels may leave too”
Tom Waits has his finger on that. Most of my essay dealt with issues of displacement in writing. We displace ourselves from reality when we use metaphors to describe it. We displace ourselves from reality when we make up stories or allegories based in real experiences to give them closure, to force them to make sense. We displace ourselves from telling people what we think when we do little more than link, either by quoting or hyperlink, to the ideas of others. In an odd fashion, we bring ourselves closer to becoming by separating the knower from the known. But there are different levels of displacement. Teasing out the levels of displacement may be part of my project for the class. I haven’t quite figured it out yet, but there’s got to be a way to codify it, to compare types of displacement on a more abstract level.
But maybe not. After all, consciousness is a sort of magic. That’s why I often make comparisons to poetry. A great poem, for me at least, is a poem that is barely held together by the relationships which it attempts to contain. At any moment, it can fly apart into incoherence, if only the slightest link is broken. Nobody likes things that are too easy. The obvious isn’t much fun.
Time for a drive. Over six hours of writing in a row is just too much. The magic idea, however, is neither freaky nor too much. Sometimes, there just isn’t any other explanation.
Kurt Vonnegut on Writing
I am so tempted
Comments are a good thing.
I had forgotten the Homer Simpson axiom that “beer was the cause and solution of all life’s problems.” The odd thing is, I usually only drink beer when I feel good. When I feel bad, it’s hard liquor. The resulting hangover usually forces the epiphany: “I’m too old for this shit…”
I finished my synopsis/reaction to Opening Up by James Pennebaker. If you’re interested in the subjects of trauma, confession, and inhibition be sure to check out the links provided by Michael Rubin. I know I will. Thanks Michael!
And I must give a major hug to Shauny, for her constant reassurance that I am not writing in a vacuum. I urge everyone, even those who (like me) don’t believe in awards, to vote for her in the Bloggies. She is indeed, one of the best kept secrets out there. Reading her musings keeps me well entertained, though I’ll say, as I often do— I am easily amused.
I woke up to what seemed like an Indian chant: “Hih-a-tee-yah” but it turned out to be just the neighbor’s kids upstairs. It was freezing, and I forgot to turn on the heat. But I’m warmer now, now that I’m getting some things done. There’s so much I want to write about these days. Maybe I should cut back on the sleep thing?
Thanks for reading. I do appreciate you all.
Oh no, another connection!
I was talking about suicide notes and such last May, brought about by viewing Girl, Interrupted, and noticed that the mental hospital involved in the story, McLane, seemed to have a major literary pedigree.
Now, I find out that John Nash also did time there. The Atlantic now has a nice interview with Alex Beam, author of Gracefully Insane: The Rise and Fall of America’s Premiere Mental Hospital. One of the primary driving forces behind treating mental illness at the time this hospital was founded was the removal of troubled people from crowded urban surroundings. There has been a big shift in my thinking since I left California, and sometimes I wonder if this is really a good thing. Its been theraputic though, even if it wasn’t what I expected.
There is a shift in perspective, far from the madding crowd. Reading Kurt Vonnegut’s thoughts on being a “Middle Westerner,” I think it has more to do with world-view than just the removal of distraction. Sometimes Arkansas seems like my asylum, though with “territorial vanity” I am always quick to declare myself a Californian. California is a country all its own. California is the end of everything. Go west young man? There isn’t any further west to go. It’s a closed space, shut off by oceans and mountains and deserts. So it’s self contained. Californians feel that there isn’t much need to look outside its borders for much of anything. California has it all. Or does it?
California is nearly rootless, because it’s roots wither in the ocean, the deserts, and the mountains. There is no sense of America. Vonnegut describes this succinctly:
Anglo-Americans and African-Americans whose ancestors came to the Middle West from the South commonly have a much more compelling awareness of a homeland elsewhere in the past than do I— in Dixie, of course, not the British Isles or Africa.
What geography can give all Middle Westerners, along with the fresh water and topsoil, if they let it, is awe for a fertile continent stretching forever in all directions.
Makes you religious. Takes your breath away.
Arkansas is not Middle Western. The land is green, and filled with hills and variegated territory. It isn’t the South, either. Shortly after I got here, I drove to Memphis, Tennessee. Home of Elvis and all that. A friend here told me, there’s just something about Memphis— “It’s the smell,” he said. I ventured into Mississippi, down the infamous Highway 61. Now that’s the South.
I drove to Missouri a couple of years ago. It scared the crap out of me, a land of pick-ups with gun racks and CB radios. I’ve never heard a CB radio in Arkansas. People use cell-phones (and even have indoor plumbing!) around here. Missouri is the Midwest, or what I’ve seen of it, but I must admit a desire to check out Lawrence, Kansas, which is not that far and the home of William S. Burroughs. Recently, I went tripping through East Texas. Each of these trips took less time than a trip from Southern California to San Francisco, and the change in terrain and attitude was just breathless.
I don’t suppose I really felt like an American, until I came here. There’s more to it than I ever dreamed. I’ve been thinking about continuing this pilgrimage east, though Dr. Kleine keeps urging me to consider the Midwest, or the North, where I’ve never been. It’s been my therapy. Going back to California isn’t on my list, though I talk about it all the time. It’s just my point of reference, my territorial vanity. There are places that form us, and I am glad that my make-up is now more complex. For all his time in London, Luke is still Australian. Perhaps if Australia goes on a bender, I might even end up there.
For now, I’m enjoying my time in this asylum. A few white-russians, and some cheesy movies, and I could be anywhere. We’re all allowed our territorial pissings, now aren’t we?
It was a cold day.
I overslept. I wasn’t late for class, but I had to forgo my shower. I felt like hell. It’s chemical. I’m a pretty classic case of manic-depression.
It’s dark. There’s lots of positive things going on. People seem to be giving me compliments that I don’t feel I deserve. I’ve received e-mails from people I haven’t heard from in a long while, saying that they miss me. My ex-wife tells me that I can’t handle success. She says I shoot myself in the foot every time things start to look good. Someone cast a spell on me. But it’s not working. I still feel horrible. But there’s no reason for it. It’s chemical.
Sleep sounds good, but I know if I lay down I won’t be able to stop thinking. William Styron got it right in his book, Darkness Visible. It’s like noise. I struggle to find ways to cut through the noise. Studying complex things helps. I bought three more books today, a Cambridge textbook on discourse pragmatics, a philosophy book on the Sophists, and Kurt Vonnegut’s latest book of short stories. Bad chemicals. Vonnegut knows a lot about that.
I need to finish the entry on Pennebaker’s book. I need to write an essay for a class on Monday. But all I can think about is an essay, or a blog entry, that I want to write about switch plates and outlet covers. It’s hard to explain; it’s just one of those ghosts of incomplete experiences. Maybe tomorrow. Tonight, I think I’ll just watch a newly downloaded copy of Barbarella. I think I’ll just roll around in the noise for a while. I know it will lift.
I appreciate the comments from new readers lately. I’m sorry I’m not more entertaining right now. It’s chemical. It will change, it always does. I know myself pretty well. I surf a chemical roller-coaster; I’ve done it all my life. But when things are good, they are damn good. That’s why I learn to live with the noise, and skip the chemical levelers.
At the bottom of every hill there are old lovers. Reading “Lovers Anonymous” by Vonnegut, I laughed when he described a club made up of guys in love with the same woman, Sheila Hinkley, that was formed when she married another man. Old lovers become emblems, but lose their urgency. I like the way Vonnegut describes it:
“Sheila Hinkley is now a spare whitewall tire on the Thunderbird of my dreams”
Better than it sounds
I would have never read a book like Opening Up: The Healing Power of Expressing Emotions by choice. However, it was assigned for one of my classes, and now I’m glad I did.
Want to feel like blogging is a good thing? Take a look at this book. It offers conclusive, scientific evidence that disclosing yourself (rather than hiding behind a persona or writing about trivialities) is healthy. The subject is a complex one, however, and it covers a lot of fascinating territory.
According to my prof, Dr. Anderson, James W. Pennebaker is the major expert in the field of writing and healing. Reading his book, I can understand why. Despite the “Oprah Book Club” style title, it contains a great overview of what happens when we confess.
Elegies, and the literature of grieving has long been a fascination of mine. Not for the psychology, but for the sheer power of expression involved. Coping with the powerful emotions of grief is a tough thing, and words do help, though I’m still searching for theories of why.
A rough overview by chapters
Poo-tee-weet?
“You can’t find the words?” Dr. Brown suggested.
There was a tinge of anxiety in the healer’s voice, and he shifted about, putting body English on whatever Eliot was about to do.
“I can’t find the words,” Eliot agreed.
“Well, said the Senator, “if you can’t put it into words, you certainly can’t use it at a sanity hearing.”
Eliot nodded in appreciation of the truth of this. “Did— did I even begin to put it into words?”
“You simply announced,” said the Senator, “that you had just been struck by an idea that would clear up this whole mess instantly, beautiful and fairly. And then you looked up in a tree.”
“Um,” said Eliot. He pretended to think, then shrugged. “Whatever it was, it’s slipped my mind.”
Kurt Vonnegut, God bless you, Mr. Rosewater