I never want to be misogynistic again. I think that in many ways I have been
misogynistic; I have blown up at my girlfriends. Another thing is that I think I am
unhappy. I hate architecture so much, it
makes me blow up so easily. I have to be
so strict with myself. I hate that fact. I never want to be misogynistic or force
myself again.
I never want to smoke a cigarette again. I smoked because I am inherently an
introvert; smoking was a way to quell anxieties about socializing. It became my social tool. But not anymore.
I want to do something that matters to me. When I read and reread my writing I am
narcissistic; I admire my own articulation, as though admiring the toning of my
muscles in a mirror; except here there is a clarity of vision, a precision of
language that demonstrates my own limits, and how I’ve surpassed them. Sometimes things I did in the past impress
me. They inspire me to do it again, to
push metaphors, reinvent them, dissolve understanding into a new substance,
reformulating the image, fluidifying my lyrical carpentry.
I am tired of my father.
I love him but he does not understand me; in fact, his efforts, profound
and sincere, have led him to deeply misunderstand me, in ways that sometimes I
am even convinced of his misunderstanding.
I want beauty; I want to find it; I see it all the time in
the patterns of letters and words. If I
can’t describe it, then it is beautiful, and so I try to unravel it into its
constituent parts. Then only the way the
words are put together is the beauty reflected.
But I don’t even know. The words
themselves reveal how satisfied the attempts are at capturing such a
thing. Sometimes you loose instances
forever in their attempted dissection.
That is why it is important to have some silence.
But the page provides the space, like a storage
bin, for thoughts, anxieties, worries, memories, so that the mind can be clear;
so that the mind can have some peace.
Like a babysitter, the page, and its words temporarily care for the born
thoughts that obligate a responsibility to raise and nurture. Now like a mother, my mind falls asleep, in
the tatters of housework, hair pinned up into a bandana on the couch. One arm folded over my eyes, the other limply
hanging off the side of the couch, grasping a rag, I dream.
