My writing has been feeling a bit clamped. Though I'm still writing more than ever. But I feel like I can be doing so much more. I know, in fact, that I can be doing so much more.
It was the notebooks. I'd been writing in notebooks, it's something about them, I feel claustrophobic, I suppose. They're kind of self-contained. You open & close them on the rings, & there they are. Which is probably just an excuse. Write on the walls if you must, man! But I opened a pack of loose-leaf last night, pulled out a page, & it just flowed out of me. I grabbed another page, & then another. I sit with a pad of watercolor paper on my lap. Sometimes I over-lap & mark-up the cover, it feels very liberating.
So I bought another pack of loose-leaf at the grocery store when I went earlier to-day, $1.50. It's Thanksgiving-break at the university. The town's population decreases by probably 30,000 over-night, & then probably about another 10,000 through till Thursday. Only the foreign students remain, & the locals. They're practically giving away food at the grocery store, there, I couldn't even help it, snagged a bottle of decent merlot for $3 only.
I was laughing to myself earlier making the tea. How I fill a sheet of loose-leaf, set it down, & grab another sheet. And the pile grows next to me. Like I'm a typewriter, I hand-write everything. I am the machine!
Which is how I feel about modernity anyway—besides with computers, like actually coding myself. Man over machine always, we do such a better job at everything. We add that "human element," that slight blemish—which is the mark of beauty. Your hand-sewn trousers, the inner-seam switches from a cross-stitch to a felling-stitch, the tailor absent-mindedly must have begun, snapped back, & re-continued. Hand-crafted goods are of such better quality than assembly-line produced products, period. And I'll preach all day walking over driving, & piss on the excuse, that "We need our cars to get around, though." Because I haven't owned a car in about 10 years, & I bet I got more miles—more kilometers—under my feet than you. On the contrary, I think it's specifically because I don't own a car that I've traveled so far, managed to get round like I do. So save your excuses, go ahead & do yourself a favor, & junk that piece.
But you know me—my strain of anarchy. I was thinking on the walk to the grocery store, that when I returned home, I'd tweet onto Twitter something like: "We must make money in order to survive. That's just life...Why?" Just so I could hear all the excuses we tell ourselves. Which is a bit cruel, so I abstained. Like how we lie to ourselves & say that we need our cars to get round, we lie to ourselves about why we must make money—"Because that's just life." If we'd just shatter our delusions—even me!—it'd perhaps be more profitable.
Well, this is a pretty boring post, I'm re-reading. The last few I've been fairly proud of, they're more...illusive, let's say. Which I kind of like, "Nostalgic for a Dream."
Which, I've been kind of lazy. Almost every time I do wake now, I wake with a dream. But I'd stopt writing them. Because I'm quite good at analyzing them. Which I'd do in my mind immediately upon waking. Which I was determining, I suppose, that some were un-important, & then I was discarding the memory of them. All this almost immediately as I wake. And I'll be buttering round the apartment later that day, perhaps. It'll come to me, "Hey, I had a dream. I can think about that." But then I have trouble re-calling it, though vividly remember waking with it in my head. And my writing has been kind of like this, has taken this effect, like I'm reaching for a clouded image...what is it, again? What is it?