Archive for January, 2010

You know I’m getting kind of worried, she doesn’t seem herself at all.

Oftentimes when I sit at the computer to write a paper for school, I do so with the hope that the words, sentences, paragraphs will just spew forth from my brain and be translated by my fingers pecking away on a keyboard, forming intelligent thoughts, ideas and analyses, written eloquently, that will earn me that coveted A.

Of course, more often than not, this is never the case. There was one time over the last semester that I was able to bust out a four page paper in a little over two hours but it was on poetry and this particular poet spoke to me and I enjoyed taking the few poems I had selected and dissecting them stanza by stanza and line by line, much in the same way that I might a favorite song. Why can’t it always be that easy?

I’ve been stuck lately. I’ve hit a wall and I don’t know how to get over it, around it or break through it. It’s painful. It leaves me with no motivation, no inspiration and a crippling fear; I do everything I can to avoid sitting at the computer, staring a blank Word screen. Time ticks by and it’s still blank and there is still no inclination to write. But I am running out of time, as with writing school papers come deadlines. It’s starting to cause anxiety and maybe even depression. I’ve found myself sleeping more just to avoid even trying to get up and write. My motivation to do anything remotely productive is slowly but surely dwindling. All I keep wondering is why?

Sometimes I feel like I’m two different people. There’s the happy girl that’s always down, always laughing and can roll with the punches and then there is the one that’s quiet, a little melancholy, that gets lost in her thoughts and sometimes has a rough time getting back to Earth. These two are in a constant, delicate balance for the most part–a perfect limbo, but there are times that I seem to regress and instead of looking forward, I tend to look back. And rather than looking back in appreciation, I look back with a lachrymose longing. I look back on my former life as if it were a dream–and not one that I was ready to wake up from–and I miss so much about it. The wheels start turning and the memories start pouring down. To top it off, I’ve had those suffocated, trapped feelings once again. It can be a dangerous combination.

So does all of this make me crazy? I’m hoping it just makes me normal. It’s just part of growing up. It’s just… life. Right? I can’t be the strongest, happiest girl all of the time and for whatever reason, it pains me to admit that. I figure I just need to stay focused; although currently I’m having a hard time figuring out how to do so…

But as my dad would say to me, “It’d kill an ordinary girl.”

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Holey, Moley, Me, Oh my, You’re the Apple of my Eye.

Alex Ebert of Ima Robot has formed a new(ish) ensemble band, Edwarde Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. Their debut album is out now and I currently cannot get enough of the song “Home”. It’s one of the most precious songs, ever! I hope you enjoy it and appreciate it as much as I do. It just makes my heart so happy.

Is there no way out of the mind?

“And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.”

-Sylvia Plath

I have so many things going on in my head at the moment that it’s hard to focus on just one and try to write it out. Every time I sit down and try, I jump from one thing to the next and whatever I write ends up a mashing of several conflicting ideas and thoughts (although, I’m sure there is a common theme). It’s ciaos right now. I fear that if I don’t get it all organized and out, it will consume me. So I’m trying…

I desperately need school to start up again. I need structured thought. I need to be occupied with tap dancing and German and thoughts of literature–epistolary and picaresque novels, romanticism, transcendentalism, contemporary literary theory, post modern deconstructionism and beyond. I’m ready, bring it on.

If I’m not careful, everything I write is going to end up being a stream of consciousness. Which might not be that bad, I suppose…

Where are Virgina Woolf and David Foster Wallace when I need them?