Anna S. (eliade) wrote,
Anna S.
eliade

of no particular sequitur

It would be impossible for me to overstate how much I wasted this weekend. How bedraggled the interior of my brain is: little pathetic scraps of thought clinging to my synapses like leaves on autumn trees.

I did not just lie around: I embraced the art and science of lying around, furthered it by leapless leaps and boundless bounds, by centuries. Not only did I lie on my couch for hours at a time, I did it in such a position that every time I got up, pain shot down the left side of my body, and not only did I exercise this masochism, I did so while "watching" terrible movies courtesy of MST3K, and not only did I "watch" them, I "watched" most of them twice, because most of the time I realized, as an episode was ending, that I'd fallen half-asleep and missed every word, and so I'd rewind to the beginning and try to sit up and pay attention, which is why I keep putting "watched" in irony quotes.

I feel rather desperately wretched.
Main Entry: wretch
Pronunciation: 'rech
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English wrecche, from Old English wrecca outcast, exile; akin to Old High German hrechjo fugitive, Old English wrecan to drive, drive out -- more at WREAK
Date: before 12th century
1 : a miserable person : one who is profoundly unhappy or in great misfortune
2 : a base, despicable, or vile person
I need to name a character Hrechjo. I need to write. I can't believe how much I am not writing. Like, strenuously not-writing. I feel ill in spirit. I'm reading this book now by Elizabeth George, "A Traitor to Memory," in which one of the main characters is a violinist who can't play. It was 200 pages before I realized this could be taken as an analogy to writer's block. Duh.

I keep having little moments where I think, Yes, this is it, I will go write, and it will be like a hemophiliac opening a vein, it will just bleed forth unstoppably, and then the moment passes.

My head feels like a pumpkin. All that pulp, all sodden and moist and useless. Except for pies, of course...I don't know what to do with that idea.

I miss childhood. Halloween and simple pleasures, such as those wax lips. I had an unexceptional childhood, dull in many ways, but looking back, I think it may have had periods of joy, and I don't know that I've felt any since then.

The only thing I did this weekend was go buy a large potted fir tree and cart it into my office. I don't know how I managed that. Now I am doing laundry, at last. Life-saving laundry. The underwear basket is empty, my apartment is a tip, and...I've deleted this thought.
Subscribe
  • Post a new comment

    Error

    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.
  • 10 comments