I will myself to write from day to day, the struggle is so arduous and so meaningless. Nothing comes of it. Whatever I write seems trite and devoid of meaning and just irrevocably stupid. Almost as if I've used up my allocated supply of wit and humour and warmth and just am this boring and eggheaded of a person. Someone Scout would describe having a conversation with, as, slowly sinking to the bottom of the ocean. But then again that has always been my impression of myself in social contexts. Any social context.
Sometimes the words come to me and a strand emerges, leading somewhere. The trouble then, becomes, not knowing where the strand leads. I could follow and find out, except that when I try to I impose my own meanings upon the strand and become conscious of imposing it. The thread is lost with consciousness. Rust Cohle called it the biggest tragedy of mankind, I do not concurr.
It's like this. Sometimes you know what you value. Sometimes the reasons for why you love what you love are just out there, spread on the table, like plates with your breakfast heaped on top. But you can't will yourself to eat. You can't partake of a single morsel. The French toast looks sumptuous, the coffee smells divine. The pancakes are swimming with honey and apples as fresh as the grapes accompanying are all there, laid out. But you just can't eat. To eat would be torture. It's almost as if you've forgotten how to eat, your stomach does not remember how to enjoy the food. Maybe you could forcefeed, because if you don't eat anything for a long time you'll die, of course. And this is the sixth month of you not being able to write already. The pancakes really do look inviting. The coffee is the right colour and just what you need early morning. Aromas coalesce and rouse your appetite the teeniest bit. You pop a grape between your lips.
And then, of course, it is hell. You wonder why you even began to eat. You just can't swallow this. Accepting this grape would be nothing short of subjecting yourself to Azkaban. Of course you don't want to go to Azkaban. You won't be allowed to use magic in any form, and you won't meet your loved ones as much as you'd like. You can't do this. You spit it out. You wait for another day.
Execept, of course, you can't. Not now. This is not the time. You're too scared of atrophy. Of becoming someone who can't employ the beautiful symbolism and imagery you once could. You wonder: could you do it then, too? Then you stop. Life is a cycle of endless doubting of the self. Can't take the stress. Can't handle it.
So you try roundabout ways of eating the grape. Of course you begin with the grape. First you simply lick it, trying to feel your way around it to be able to feel comfortable enough to swallow, if not chew. It doesn't work. The slow almost-sensual exploration of this tiny fruit just spurrs on your distaste. Then you close your eyes and try to blaze your way through, chewing it ferociously and swallowing with the utmost willpower. Then of course, you belch. Vomit. So much for forcing yourself.
Maybe you could try grape with custard. So you do. Your sister's custard is good enough, or at least as you remember it from a year ago. You dip the grape, pop it in and take a bite. Chew. It's still horrible but at least you can continue chewing. A few more chews have you spitting it out, but the point has been made. So now you keep trying to have the grape with custard. Endlessly. Every hour you try to have it with custard. Soon it makes you sick. But you will yourself to continue until you can swallow without feeling like Gollum.
And one day you do.
Your joy knows no bounds. Finally you can enjoy eating the food you love so much. You cut into hot and gooey pancakes, with chocolate syrup this time. Put a bite to your mouth. Hmm. It tastes good the first few seconds then it goes back to tasting slightly trite, then utterly plebian. At least it's not disgusting, but your ultimate aim, which was to experience the joys of eating a marvellous English breakfast as if for the first time every day, to capture that magic, has been rudely shattered. You realise that you can never, ever, experience that ethereal ephemeral insanity again. That moment of stupendous magic and inspiration, when laws ran amok and anything was possible. It's gone leaving nothing, zilch, nada. You plow your way through breakfast gloomily, all you want now is to sleep. Sleep sleep sleep. Eternal sleep.
Slowly, however, after plowing your way through a couple of breakfasts, you realize the plebian fare has grown on you. The chocolate tastes pleasant and the apples are fresh and not nauseating. The coffee does it's work and the French toast is filling. Sometimes you take it with chili sauce, it adds to the experience.
You realize that although you can never experience that gloriously realized moment of your first English breakfast again, you can have it for the rest of your life with considerable satiation and pleasantness. If you experiment a little, you can often discover favourable avenues and most often than not, you do. Once you even take the drastic step of cooking Italian for a change, and find the aberration utterly delicious and scandulously pleasing. Maybe you ought to do this more often. Mix and match.
The lost moment will never return, of course. Nor will the first taste of crunchy bacon. But you may discover many other new moments which will be memories and guidelines through the journey of your life. And the most moment will be converted into a star, to be looked at and sighed after. To be loved and left alone, like a simple reminder in the canvas of your life like the sky.
So, then, you too may attempt to pen your love again. And recall that great first breakfast. And of course you'll waste page after page trying to capture or emulate for the reader just how sumptuous it was. But perhaps you will never arrive even a mile close to the actuality of it. Perhaps, if you're blessed under your star, you will. Either way, you'll recall with faithful and ardent admiration and love, that moment. And to capture it will serve as your life's glory.
And so it is too with life devoid of meaning, to comit oneself to moments and not the morsels in themselves. The morsels remain for the enjoying, in the moment.
Sometimes the words come to me and a strand emerges, leading somewhere. The trouble then, becomes, not knowing where the strand leads. I could follow and find out, except that when I try to I impose my own meanings upon the strand and become conscious of imposing it. The thread is lost with consciousness. Rust Cohle called it the biggest tragedy of mankind, I do not concurr.
It's like this. Sometimes you know what you value. Sometimes the reasons for why you love what you love are just out there, spread on the table, like plates with your breakfast heaped on top. But you can't will yourself to eat. You can't partake of a single morsel. The French toast looks sumptuous, the coffee smells divine. The pancakes are swimming with honey and apples as fresh as the grapes accompanying are all there, laid out. But you just can't eat. To eat would be torture. It's almost as if you've forgotten how to eat, your stomach does not remember how to enjoy the food. Maybe you could forcefeed, because if you don't eat anything for a long time you'll die, of course. And this is the sixth month of you not being able to write already. The pancakes really do look inviting. The coffee is the right colour and just what you need early morning. Aromas coalesce and rouse your appetite the teeniest bit. You pop a grape between your lips.
And then, of course, it is hell. You wonder why you even began to eat. You just can't swallow this. Accepting this grape would be nothing short of subjecting yourself to Azkaban. Of course you don't want to go to Azkaban. You won't be allowed to use magic in any form, and you won't meet your loved ones as much as you'd like. You can't do this. You spit it out. You wait for another day.
Execept, of course, you can't. Not now. This is not the time. You're too scared of atrophy. Of becoming someone who can't employ the beautiful symbolism and imagery you once could. You wonder: could you do it then, too? Then you stop. Life is a cycle of endless doubting of the self. Can't take the stress. Can't handle it.
So you try roundabout ways of eating the grape. Of course you begin with the grape. First you simply lick it, trying to feel your way around it to be able to feel comfortable enough to swallow, if not chew. It doesn't work. The slow almost-sensual exploration of this tiny fruit just spurrs on your distaste. Then you close your eyes and try to blaze your way through, chewing it ferociously and swallowing with the utmost willpower. Then of course, you belch. Vomit. So much for forcing yourself.
Maybe you could try grape with custard. So you do. Your sister's custard is good enough, or at least as you remember it from a year ago. You dip the grape, pop it in and take a bite. Chew. It's still horrible but at least you can continue chewing. A few more chews have you spitting it out, but the point has been made. So now you keep trying to have the grape with custard. Endlessly. Every hour you try to have it with custard. Soon it makes you sick. But you will yourself to continue until you can swallow without feeling like Gollum.
And one day you do.
Your joy knows no bounds. Finally you can enjoy eating the food you love so much. You cut into hot and gooey pancakes, with chocolate syrup this time. Put a bite to your mouth. Hmm. It tastes good the first few seconds then it goes back to tasting slightly trite, then utterly plebian. At least it's not disgusting, but your ultimate aim, which was to experience the joys of eating a marvellous English breakfast as if for the first time every day, to capture that magic, has been rudely shattered. You realise that you can never, ever, experience that ethereal ephemeral insanity again. That moment of stupendous magic and inspiration, when laws ran amok and anything was possible. It's gone leaving nothing, zilch, nada. You plow your way through breakfast gloomily, all you want now is to sleep. Sleep sleep sleep. Eternal sleep.
Slowly, however, after plowing your way through a couple of breakfasts, you realize the plebian fare has grown on you. The chocolate tastes pleasant and the apples are fresh and not nauseating. The coffee does it's work and the French toast is filling. Sometimes you take it with chili sauce, it adds to the experience.
You realize that although you can never experience that gloriously realized moment of your first English breakfast again, you can have it for the rest of your life with considerable satiation and pleasantness. If you experiment a little, you can often discover favourable avenues and most often than not, you do. Once you even take the drastic step of cooking Italian for a change, and find the aberration utterly delicious and scandulously pleasing. Maybe you ought to do this more often. Mix and match.
The lost moment will never return, of course. Nor will the first taste of crunchy bacon. But you may discover many other new moments which will be memories and guidelines through the journey of your life. And the most moment will be converted into a star, to be looked at and sighed after. To be loved and left alone, like a simple reminder in the canvas of your life like the sky.
So, then, you too may attempt to pen your love again. And recall that great first breakfast. And of course you'll waste page after page trying to capture or emulate for the reader just how sumptuous it was. But perhaps you will never arrive even a mile close to the actuality of it. Perhaps, if you're blessed under your star, you will. Either way, you'll recall with faithful and ardent admiration and love, that moment. And to capture it will serve as your life's glory.
And so it is too with life devoid of meaning, to comit oneself to moments and not the morsels in themselves. The morsels remain for the enjoying, in the moment.
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