If you're not careful, station KFKD, or K-Fucked, will play in your head twenty-four hours a day, nonstop in stereo. Out of the right speaker in your inner ear will come the endless stream of self-aggrandizing, the recitation of one's specialness, of how much more open and gifted and brilliant and knowing and misunderstood and humble one is. Out of the left speaker will be the rap songs of self-loathing, the lists of all the things one doesn't do well, of all the mistakes one has made today and over an entire lifetime, the doubt, the assertion that everything that one touches turns to shit, that one doesn't do relationships well, that one is in every way a fraud, incapable of selfless love, that one has no talent or insight, and on and on and on.
Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life
too late
back in ny, in my room, late at night
Two days into classes, maybe finally I'll gain some sense of routine and write again. I'm excited about the upcoming semester, and about actually accomplishing and creating things that require difficult thought. I spent the break primarily consuming media, which, though I prefer the thoughtful kind, takes much less strain than actually creating something yourself.
There was the compilation of that little project, and thanks so much to everyone who's explored it, who's said nice things about it, but the difficult work on that was spread out over so many months that the conclusion was just an exciting final domino.
I have more to say (it's almost filling me to bursting, after reading the above book), but I really need to get to sleep and go back to work tomorrow early-- I've been away from the office for almost four weeks now.