in the beginning was the word
I don't know why I can't do this, why it's such a painful task to just pound this shit out, write down what I mean to say, and get it done with.
I just can't write my personal statement. It's absolutely killing me.
Well. At least I can still write (as long as you keep your threshold for what constitutes as writing relatively low, that is.)
Seriously, though. I miss it a lot. I don't know what made me give up, why I can no longer feel the euphoric rush of inspiration, of writing down the crystallized images emanating from my mind.
Instead, the words come out long and labored, rough-hewn and unfinished.
The form is obscured by the content. The content is distorted by the form. A veritable downward spiral of incomprehensibility.
The idee fixee. The overvalent idea. (Odd, that, that something I wrote nearly a year ago parallels these thoughts bouncing through my mind. Something about autumn, no doubt.)
I am trapped in my own circular, solipsistic universe.
But, like I said. Incomprehensible. I hardly understand what I'm saying.
In any case, it was good to go back to Berkeley on Tuesday. I haven't been there since June 2002, when A and E got married. I haven't really been there since December 2001, when I bought a, uh, "tobacco accessory." (It wasn't for me, I swear! It was supposed to be a Christmas present!)
Like I told BR, it was strange that my body remembered the place, but my eyes didn't recognize a goddamned thing. (In the words of a nerdy biology major and future M.D., my procedural memory was intact, but my visual memory couldn't make heads or tails of anything.)
I went to the maganda event in Dwinelle, where Barbara Reyes and Aimee Nezhukumatathil read poetry.
Ah. The word. It seems like a lifetime away. And yet I can't let go of it.
(Since I am mentioning poets' blogs, I ought to mention Gura's Blog as well. I apparently missed her, as I came too late.)
I need to get in touch with my soul again, I suppose. I can't help ponder William Gibson's caveat regarding blogging and its possible incompatibility with serious writing.
Oh well. You can't hurry love inspiration. You just have to wait.