I am learning. It can never be a waste of my time.
How can I regret falling through Milton, Spenser, and good ol’ Shakespeare even if it is only in a self-gratifying attempt to increase my own cleverness?
I need to write-write and I want to play with yesterday’s stuff so instead, and the muscle feels atrophied and confused when I ask it to do this for some reason, we’re talking about good ol’ me again.
I am good. In that I am still frustrated with work. A. will read this and understand this frustration so I don’t feel I either need to be vague or elaborate. Suffice it to say, I feel as though I leave the house for four hours and be away and come home to the work…but that last bit is still as nebulous as ever, as nebulous as the former has become. Really, I just walk around blank-facedly all the time.
But I do have that. Not money, but there’s time. Like today, after peeling out of the office at 1 – that meant time to go to eat at a restaurant which we shouldn’t do, but on some level need to do, and then we came home and did some house cleaning and then, there’s still hours to, basically, get on shit. So I did, I got to researching and thinking up insane fanmixes and rode the bike and did other, less productive tasks. I am now, just now, pretty primed to get back to my novel writing.
But, in the interests of cleansing my palate and not letting this drag forth for another day, I should confess.
I have had some thoughts lately that have held me back on my great, grand, weight losing, book writing, life defining journey of being (or whatever). Mostly they center around loneliness – some of this is just mood, some of this is sparked by S. – a story wherein two people are brought and bound together by the power of the written word. In the book, they use text to court, to discover, to build trust in one another. They have my ideal romance, one full of intrigue and compassion, and one literally created in print. I have…well, I have a lot of time. Or maybe I don’t.
It forces me to think of Mr. Confusion – who would have, on nearly every level, been the ideal person to share this book with. He had the mind for it, unless I’m wrong and he’d find it dreck. I don’t think he would, but who can say now? Not I. And to think myself past him at the chance, some day, that there would be somebody else who I could feel the same way about.
It’s also rough because I want a fandom, I want to be able to share this ultimately solitary experience and there just isn’t one. What there is is a bunch of people who may have been active two years ago and a lot of opportunity to play…but only if you don’t mind playing with yourself and therefore making a bit of a spectacle to try and re-engage folks who have since moved on. That is a lot of energy and conviction and I feel a bit isolated. The dear friends are quiet and going through their own shit – some of which I wish was possible to wish away for them. I just feel like…I was a voyeur into a breath of a completely fictional piece of truth and I turned the final page and feel the emptiness of everything. The winds of solitude roaring at the edge of infinity. Really: I feel…sad. At the same time I feel fine?
Oh, to write something so powerful one day. To knock about with somebody’s soul like this!
I am writing. I am reading, too. This is keeping me of general good cheer. I just…there’s so much time now and the perfectionist is getting in the way of the good of it. I am grateful as hell that I’ve got what I’ve got.