Meditations on Life - Post for May 20th, 2013

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.