Anna S. (eliade) wrote,
Anna S.

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.

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