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aporeo - 19:10 on 17 II 2004

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17 II 2004 - 19:10 - aporeo


It's betraying delusions of grandeur to cast the rain and high winds we've had today as the attempt of the City to cast me out. Well, then, I shall admit to delusions of grandeur, and there is no way you can say you haven't been warned.

Sometimes I wonder if there isn't something I should be doing to make my life worth living, really; on an objective scale of human behavior, I have to admit that writing applications and filling out essays is probably not all that high on the glamor-list. Of course, I eventually come back to: there really isn't much I'd rather be doing. On some basic level, despite wanting to go out and travel and learn new tongues and pick up strange men in foreign marketplaces... all I really want is to have a home, and someone to share it with, and a job that will involve library work, and sitting at a table with a warm pot of tea and getting translations done.

Of course, with such jobs tends to come the teaching bit, and the need to publish, and network, and do all the things of which I still can't quite admit to myself I am absolutely terrified. On the whole, I like people, I really do, except I can be somewhat capricious about when I like them and how many of them I like all at once, and really - it's a fault I've been working on, and not making much progress on, so it seems a lot simpler to hole up by myself with a good book and a library nearby. That's something I don't understand - how someone can be perfectly nice by himself, and then change into a vicious monster when placed in a group. But then there are many things I don't understand, about people - which is where I'm convinced my final defeat will come. (Hmm - a nice melodramatic ring to that phrase, yes?) Well, it's mostly men I'm afraid of, but that fear is an entirely different essay probably best saved for another time.

So this is what the year of the Monkey looks like: 4701, although I have no idea what I'm counting from with that. As usual, I am banging my head against an application - I cannot write about myself for the unimagined audience, although I seem to do that just fine here - and finding no success; out of six essays and short answers, only two are done, and one of those is too long to fit in the box. I also have the final line of a poem running through my head - this is how, unfortunately, my writing works, with little conscious control from me - but I'm too exhausted to make anything of it, everything I've tried today sounds as flat as I imagine I must look. I wish I could just ignore it - I wish I had the will of a writer, to craft words with the care I know they should be given about -

and that's where I fail, every time, because my writing is the irregular product of moods, and I can't help feeling as if that makes it illegitimate, somehow. It's the same with music - I understand the principles behind its creation, I display a certain talent - but it will never go farther than that, because (tasting the iron of conviction, here) I have no will for it. Simple - it will all remain a diversion.

I suspect I have sunk into one of my periodic bankruptcies of will without realizing it, which worries me. If I am aware that it is cyclical - if my only defense has long been that I am aware of what is happening as it happens, because I sure as hell don't know how to pull myself out of this without divine intervention - then what does this oversight mean for me for the future, what does it mean about the nature of my self-knowledge? Simple: I am changing, my self-knowledge isn't worth the paper it's printed on, I need to stop mapping my inner landscape onto my outer, and vice versa.






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