currently listening to:nothing
status:going mad ok mad.
its 230 am and i am going mad
my inability to sit down and do some solid, academic writing is driving me mad
and it is so noisy in here, there is so much clutter everywhere
its about this time every term that i run back to my other blog and bleed words because if they stay in me i will go mad
i am sorry i know this isn’t vaguely interesting nor much like what this space is meant for but it is 2:30 am and I’m just going to keep repeating the time like it makes for a valid excuse.
excerpt after the jump.
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“start writing!”
he says to me, and i inwardly cringe, i dont know why i agreed to this, to you policing my academic life,what was i thinking, cant even blame it on the alcohol or the coffee or the sugar because its been too long in coming, and anyway, i dont get tipsy.
“start writing!”
he repeats, and i think to myself, what a parrot. im not a vending machine, ten cents twenty cents fifty cents twenty- that makes a dollar! put them in and press a button and here you have two thousand words worth of a research paper. these things aren’t made to order, you really wouldnt understand, all you do is press buttons on a calculator, thats all you really know, all your language is translated and whittled down into mathematical symbols and equations and scientific signs NaOH, H2O, H2O2, Ca, tables of this and that. the only periodic tables i know come in monthly installments.
“start writing!”
he vociferates, and i wish i could tell you how i never stop, so how do i start? i dont ever stop writing. i will go mad if i dont write. i scribble all over any flat surface, sometimes even curved or bumpy ones. if you pass by a starbucks i frequent, i’ve marked my prescence with words all over their environmentally friendly paper napkins. see that tree over there? i’ve breathed on it gently with signo 0.38 black ink. my own skin is temporarily tattooed with words in the strangest places until they wash off in my next bath. when i look at you, im writing your story with my mind. when you speak, a running commentary is looping in my head. i give out posticks to random strangers with doodles and words all over them. i tell all my friends that i dont use stationary because im afraid that they’ll find my stash of words locked away in various notebooks and paper pads the minute i have to explain how i go through at least four pen refills every week. i write on the back of photographs before glueing them to any surface, burying them forever. i tap away at my keyboard in the middle of the night, i suspect my roommate thinks we have mice, it scares her. whenever i run out of ink or battery, i start talking to inanimate objects. i murmur to my shoes under the cover of raindrops. i rewrite song lyrics with my headphones on.
“start writing!”
he tells me, and i think to myself, if only you knew.