where i live is dark and warm
I really like (my) new apartment. Well, it’s not really mine. My parents own it. But I am living in it. When I am not living in it, they will move here and grow old, or my grandparents will live here and stay old.
The only thing I am missing is a cat. I want a cat as soft as water.
John Watkins visited class on Monday and said something insightful. It was something I was aware of but he expressed it in a grave way. That in writing you write to become the Other. Normally I cringe when the Other is uttered because I am tired of the expression, but Watkins was talking about becoming what you used to hate, what you used to separate yourself from. Tastes die. Or opposites attract? If my self from last year read what I am writing now, she would hate me. And I have nothing but nasty feelings about my old work, even words written no less than 2 months ago.
I’ve come to believe that it is a good thing to offer no resistance against what horrifies me, to a certain extent, obviously. The things that have helped me grow as a person and a writer are usually ideas I thought I didn’t want anything to do with.
Now it’s become a sort of race against time. Not in the morbid sense, but I have a lot of anxiety about boredom. I try to push through projects as quickly as I can before it goes stale, before I go off looking for trouble. This is a bad attitude, in a few senses. I don’t usually abandon anything, especially big projects, but time apart can really alienate me from the initial impulse. And spark is important in relationships. I want my relationships to be intense. Yes I’m talking about relating to texts. Someone in my workshop talks about poems as living bodies. What can you let decay? he asks. I worry that everything will disintegrate.
So I’m working on steadiness, I guess.