I think I have been in a funk for the last few weeks. I know I have been in a funk since the election. You spend eight years on fucking eggshells, and then the thing you have been hoping for for the last four years comes true and, well, the relief! But also listlessness, and that does me no good for writing, or thinking. I feel like I haven't been able to marshal my thoughts lately, and if I can't get it together, I can't write effectively, or get up the urge to write at all.
That post on Mitch Mitchell crippled me, or at least let me know I had been crippled. Mitchell was someone who I cared deeply about, who meant an immense amount to me, and I couldn't think of anything to say with any depth, nothing past a generic "Oh, man, bummer" type of sentiment. That caused a real crisis of of confidence, and it's been hard since then for me to devote the necessary time to an particular writing endeavor. I have thought of tons of things to write, tons of things I would like to comment on, organize my thoughts about, but they all seem to stay unwritten, kicking about my head and fighting for airtime.
Then I printed out the story I am working on, printing two pages per sheet, to condense it, and get a better, more objective sense of what I was working on. And it read wrong. The words were all the same notes that I knew would be there, but it was like listening to a recording of your own voice*. There's just this revulsion. "Oh God! Do I really sound like that?" It's why I hate editing, which is a hatred which does not help a writer, either. I have been getting over it, and have been doing a fair amount of editing, but I have edited this one so much, and it still sounds like a recording, instead of live speaking.
I have been trying to read some fiction lately, but it hasn't worked. I tried reading Moby Dick, and I was liking it, but I didn't get much farther than I did last time. The narrative drive went away, and I set it aside, meaning to pick it up soon, and then it was overdue. I checked out Quicksilver, by Neal Stephenson, the first book in the Baroque Cycle, and read the first 40 pages or so really really fast, but nothing really happened, and I just haven't had the drive to pick it up in a while. I have been reading The Solitudes by John Crowley, originally titled Ægypt, Book I of the Ægypt Cycle (what's with all the Cycles?). I've probably been reading it for longer than I attempted either of the other books, just off and on, and while I am not entirely engaged in it, the prose is inventive in that peculiar literary fiction way, (I think it's called "lyrical realism," at least that's what Zadie Smith calls it) as you would expect from a Yale professor. The plot hasn't really caught me yet—after the really interesting prologue, which has yet to have something to do with the rest of the story—so I am just costing along on the shiny pretty words.
But really, I think I just can't stand fiction these days. All their voices are measured against the voice I hear in my head, and found inferior, and all the plots are less interesting than the one I want to write. I want to read that story, but it's not written, and that makes writing it very frustrating.
This frustration is carrying over into my social life, or what counts for a social life out here, anyways. When at work I am always angry, always on edge, and that has been noticed now, and I have been gently admonished to chill out. I just find myself hating it there, hating every second, and every day. I just want to explode in shrapnel shards of expletives at everyone, at the smallest bit of grief that they give me, the littlest twitch of emphasis in their tongues, and when they are angry, all can't respond, all I can do is quiver, try to keep from going off. I fantasize about quitting all time—wouldn't it show them? if I did right before Thanksgiving?—but that's just an outlet, an outlet to a little space for the dreams to explode in. Maybe it's because I am drinking too much caffeine. Maybe it's because I'm not drinking any beer**.
Whatever it is, the psychological has gone psychosomatic. I've had an outbreak of exema which, if there is any pattern I'm able to detect, it's not due to some physical irritant***; it seems to come after I have been on edge mentally for a couple days. It's almost a relief, though irritating as all hell. Like a little kick telling me "Ok Matt, chill the fuck out, You are off the reservation right now." I am probably going to call in tomarrow.
Good. I need this moment to take stock of it all, though it's kind of sad how often I seem to need to take stock of it all. My apartment is a mess. The floor is littered in unwashed clothes, washed unfolded clothes, hampers of unfolded washed clothes, open books, closed books, notebooks, plastic bags of pop cans, empty boxes from pop cans, pillows, papers, plastic bags, drumsticks and dust. The sink is full of dishes. Every other surface is covered in wrappers, cracker boxes, emptys pasta packets, glasses, beer bottles, pop cans, cartons, more papers, cd cases, tupperware, tissues, monitor wipes, cards, and dental floss. I need to clean this place up. Clean up, get centered, and get back to getting out. That means thinking more, writing more, organizing my thoughts more, engaging more, and projecting more positive vibes.
And my fridge is empty. I need to go shopping. Nothing gives you a worry like an unstocked larder.
*I think the entirety specturm of an
**Hey, a man needs to depress now and then, and cast aside his inhibitions for an hour or three.
***Well, the caffeine probably doesn't help.
