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03 August 2003 @ 07:37 pm
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.
 
 
 
Herself_nyc: robintcj's S/X manipherself_nyc on August 3rd, 2003 08:18 pm (UTC)
Well, for what small consolation is in it, you have expressed your wretchedness with graceful, engaging and evocative prose. Sorry things are tough.
Anna S.eliade on August 3rd, 2003 08:37 pm (UTC)
Sorry things are tough.

My first reading of that sentence was an interesting one. I like it. "Sorry things are tough." Yes. I'd like to believe that...
Herself_nycherself_nyc on August 4th, 2003 06:59 am (UTC)
Oh, yes, sorry things are tough. Best to walk softly, carry big stick around those sorry things.
Destinadestina on August 3rd, 2003 08:21 pm (UTC)
You are a pie-head?

*pokes the pumpkin*

Mmmm. Squishy. *g* It sounds like you needed some serious down time, so perhaps the pulpy state of your brain was essential. I understand the writing bit, tho. I was up until 4AM, angsting over my complete inability to write the ending of a story. Serious inner freak-out. Much empathy.
Anna S.eliade on August 3rd, 2003 08:36 pm (UTC)
Pie-head. Yes. I out myself. I am the pie-head, goo goo g'joob.

(Yes, that's apparently what the Beatles sang: "goo goo g'joob." Our icons are meaningful and wise and good.)
Vera: Sugarcopracat on August 3rd, 2003 08:27 pm (UTC)
Not to make any assumptions about your own personal self but I was feeling utterly depressed once. Then I noticed that the depression got worse whenever I picked up the Will Self book I was reading. I stopped reading. I mean, Will Self is great and I loved Cock and Bull but enough is enough! Sometimes you need the pretty <--- please note saucy girltalk icon.
Anna S.eliade on August 3rd, 2003 08:32 pm (UTC)
I had to go look up Will Self. I found:

Cock and Bull: This black comedy is divided into two parts. In the first a woman grows a penis and rapes her husband. In the second a man grows a vagina behind his knee and is then seduced by his doctor. Self was shortlisted for the John Llewellyn Rhys prize for his collection "The Quantity Theory of Insanity."

I have no idea why that would depress you.

She said dryly.

Think I'll probably be better off staying away from Will Self--and My Self, too!

Badda bing, badda boom. Thank you thank you, we'll be here all week....
Claudia: one of those days (saava)claudia_yvr on August 4th, 2003 02:16 am (UTC)
I finally got some plants for the office, and find it ridiculously soothing to look after them. I mist them lovingly during aggravating phone calls and it calms me right down.

My brain doesn't so much feel pulpy, as clogged up. I once saw this short film where this frazzled woman washes her brain. We don't see her removing it, only scrubbing it thoroughly under the running water of a kitchen tap. She looks really pleased with herself afterwards, all joyful and happy. I'd love to run my brain under some cool water, gently clear out some of those cobwebs.
(Anonymous) on August 4th, 2003 02:48 am (UTC)
I sympathise with the pumpkin-headed feeling. All my ideas are stupid(BtvS and QaF are *not* good crossover material, damnit!)and my 4-week vacation is over tomorrow. Sigh.
Angel: debbievalarltd on August 4th, 2003 07:15 am (UTC)
((Hugs))

feeling a bit pie-like myself.
Lying abed for 2 hours, unable to sleep, pondering why you hate your own male author avatar is not good. Especially not when the alarm rings 4 hours later.

Sometimes, a downtime weekend is a necessity. Take it easy, read lots of smut, and maybe something will happen to inspire you.