i couldn't help but wonder

in a state of boredom and block i ended up re-watching seasons 3-7 of sex and the city this month. it's a poorly written show, but also a really good show. infinitely better than petty and privileged Girls, i would argue. possibly because SATC doesn't purport to be otherwise; like Samantha Jones, it is unapologetic. the women, while superficial, juvenile, sometimes aimless, and always fallible, are much more likable and relatable, more so now that i've entered thirties-dom. also now that i'm craving nyc desperately and romanticizing its chaos, rather than struggling to carry my groceries up to a fifth floor walk up apt. i've had one scene running through my head, this one, for no real reason other than that it feels so perfect and genuine. 

delicious

reminiscent of roxette, cyndi lauper, sinead o' connor, Pretty Woman, and all that late 20th C merriment: wildest moments

yes

i/you/we/they are not a robot

essentialism

there is something weirdly necessary and satisfying about the 'compose' field, something that makes it easier than writing in a journal or a word document, yet still feels just as noncommittal and unscrutinized. i have lately been unable to type a single word, or to write one by hand. this is depressing and frustrating, because i still wake up each day feeling like i have to write. it's the equivalent of dry-heaving: i feel like i need to but nothing comes out.

i've been going through word docs and reading old story and essay starts, ones that went nowhere. this morning i've reading from an old defunct blog, and stumbled upon this entry that caught my attention. recently a friend and i collectively wondered if we were progressing at all or just writing the same things and feeling the same feelings over and over. They say most writers continuously return to the same subject, they circle around it like a lion to a zebra, never able to fully attack or grasp or consume it. this is certainly the case.

:::

High Ceilings.
August 13, 2010

I got to Iowa yesterday, and I cannot say that I’ve been happy these past two days. I have no furniture. I have no car. I have no bed. I have no AC! I have internet, thankfully. I am sitting here on a hardwood floor in the middle of a big, empty, apartment, wondering just what exactly I’m doing. I have a friend who I’m scared of. I am trying to keep an open mind, as my morning meditation suggested, but even that’s eluding me. I wonder, sometimes, why I put myself in these positions. Ones where I’m starting all over, building a new life, entering an unknown. Why? Why not just do the simple thing and stay in one place? Stick to what’s familiar. By now I’d probably be a lot further along in life. Maybe I’d have a strong relationship. I’d have a circle of close friends that I’m comfortable with instead of scattered ones across the globe. I might have a successful career. But isn’t that why I’m moving around so much? Because I DON’T want a career? Instead I’m chasing a dream, and it’s taken me to Italy, Boston, New York, Kentucky, and now, Iowa. Please let this be where I pin the dream down. I’d love some roots.

Tonight I attended a very moving reading, one that had the effect of making me heart-wrenchingly sad in a cathartic way. My favorite accompaniment to sadness is usually writing, but after this particular reading, i did not want to write. In fact it confirmed a desire to not write. This negative desire--to refrain, to stop, even--was itself catharsis.

On self-fulfilling prophecies and role play.

" I rather wonder, until today, what I could possibly have looked like....I felt that if she found a black man so frightening I would make her fright worth-while." ~James Baldwin, Notes of a Native Son

i love this

'lord what must i do'

true faith

remix

a posteriori

typo cringe typo

artful, emotional

all of the lights

is it too late

to be excited for life