It takes a long time for my mind to accumulate enough bits and bobs of interesting items yielding ideas I want to work on, with. I’m taking a break from reading books this week, so I’m either on Twitter a lot, skimming, or I’m spinning my wheels, wondering what’s worth some effort.
I haven’t been able to figure out how to achieve intellectual stimulation to the degree I need… other than reading (books, mostly) week in and week out. I can only occasionally talk about what I’ve been reading with Spouse — his interests are narrower than mine, and he doesn’t speculate imaginatively the way I do when I encounter new-to-me information. So if I’m telling him about what I’ve been reading, it’s less of a discussion or conversation, and more of a monologue.
I have all this enthusiasm, and no one who shares it in real-time.
I’m using my brain more, differently and deeper — I’m developing such capacities! But no one knows that, and I don’t know how they might.
So I read more books.
Sometimes I pencil comments in the margins of library books, just to feel like I’m talking to someone.
Spouse and I early-voted on Tuesday. There was an hour-long wait. In previous years, our ballots had been electronic, but this year, we inked in ovals on paper ballots, then scanned them.
The anxiety of this interminable election… I’m so ready for it to be done.
I haven’t had so much as a glass of wine in ~20 years.
A week before I stopped reading books, I realized my stint in Poetry-at-a-Furious-Pace (which I’d been immersed in for, oh, about 3.5 years) had abruptly ended. It was an unsettling 3 days of not knowing what to think about, and wondering who I was without Poetry. But a day or so later, I felt ideas about non-poetry things returning to me.
In retrospect, I’m surprised at how much brainpower was being taken up with Poetry, even when I wasn’t reading or writing it. Technically, I probably had the bandwidth to be doing other things, but for Reticulating Splines-type reasons I couldn’t access it. It’s been kind of disorienting getting reacquainted with my selves that are not writers.
Ironically perhaps, I feel like I’m on the verge of having skills good enough to actually write some shit worth saying.
I’m definitely improving at ‘hearing’ my unconscious when it drops images or phrases into my awareness. Every so often, a whole line.
My quest to number all my poems has stalled again, but the last version was 1.5, so maybe the iterations in the 2’s will be the ones that aren’t overthinking and over-documenting every tiny thing.
Some time back, I bought the only book I could find on titling poems. But reading it was dry as dust, and I wasn’t even learning much of use.
The “brambleberry wine” organic green tea I tried out last night smelled wonderful. It tasted, however, like sweaty gym socks steeped in water, with delicious berry top notes. Disappointing combo.
I knew, picking the box off the shelf, that the name sold me. But I expected something edible at least!
Tonight I have a different berry tea, and it’s much better.
More than just the occasional Spanish word is showing up in my poems. Someday, I want to translate poetry, and write poetry in language(s) other than English. I’m getting closer.
I’m tired and my brain feels like mush.
There’s fluid in my ears, and it’s annoying, but it doesn’t hurt yet, so I’ve been waffling about going back to the clinic about it. Unfortunately the nose spray I got last time expired months ago.
Spouse has a different issue with his ears, which he is stressing about.
I wish there was a way to vent about medical issues (to Spouse) without having it turn into a contest over who has things worse. Instead of blowing off steam and returning to emotional equilibrium, I find myself worrying (even more) about his health, plus worrying about how he doesn’t seem to deal with stress very effectively. Which, obviously, I have no control over.
When that happens, I automatically try to placate him, which is counterproductive, but it does soothe my childhood fears of being abandoned because I’m (clearly) not lovable.
My unconscious mind gave me a great line to begin a poem a few months ago. But when I realized the specific incident it referred to, and how much muck and slime I’d have to relive to write about it… I haven’t done a thing with it.
I’m so over writing directly about my (traumatic) childhood or adolescence or young adulthood in a poem. Just… done.
But if I’m not processing unpleasant emotions in that fashion, I’m not processing them at all. I remain “choked with grief and rage”, which is not helpful neither. Aw, hell. Don’t tell me I really do need to write the thing. Its anniversary is even coming up.