I met someone today who said, completely without shame or self-deprecation, that he is “writing a book.” And it wasn’t a slip of the tongue like he forgot he wasn’t talking to himself in the mirror because he said it again. You may be composing word salad, or puzzling over a project, or brainstorming a story, but you are never just WRITING A BOOK. Anyone who says they are writing a book is not writing a book.
I used to have a page on here with quotes and pictures. Here are the quotes:
This was one of my first attempts at a translation of a Russian poem.
I had forgotten these words I once loved:
the whole purple melancholy of happiness -- Nietzsche.
the selfish infinity of possibility -- Kierkegaard.
the heart whose sweat was gore -- Byron.
the ghost of electricity howls in the bones of her face -- Dylan.
I said I would start writing word salad again. At least I can add this section back to the site.
Six words from this poem popped into my head today:
Someone once said in a workshop that I had written a "dark Faulkneresque fairy tale" and it's stuck with me as the greatest compliment I've ever received. The aesthetic of the inside of my brain is Southern Gothic.
Found in the detritus of my old documents:
I miss this morning view.
I did a deep dive into my Google Docs, also, and found I had saved (for my own humiliation) every Bloglet from the beginning of this website to January 2012, i.e. my most absurd period. I skimmed, mostly for the poetry quotes. And this, the very first thing I ever posted (while still at Dartmouth; reunion in two weeks is going to be great, obviously):
I was contacted by my old department to share how majoring in Russian has helped my life, um, I don't know, check out what I posted on the Internet in just one week when I was 26.
In all seriousness, Russian satisfied something in my soul and stirred my imagination. It was the best thing about college. Highly recommend.
I've started listening to audiobooks while I walk since I hate reading now. (I highly recommend Dan Stevens narrating Frankenstein and Olivia Williams narrating Persuasion). I decided if I ever get tapped to record an audiobook I will give everyone different voices except for the main character who will just be my own voice. Kind of like how when Laurence Olivier and Kenneth Branagh both directed Hamlet they cast themselves as Hamlet.
My approach to law school is to take a few bar classes and then exclusively study law pertaining to art and artists. It's working out.
I should have gone to law school before people told me I couldn't expect to be paid to write.
It's Ayn Rand's birthday, which I know because I had dinner with people who told me last night.
I got a list of box office receipts in film class tonight and tallied it up: I saw 23 new releases in 2016, if you're wondering how I ran out of money.
I bought another bilingual volume of Rilke, even though I don't know German, so that's about where I'm at these days.
Also, I got ice cream a week ago and forgot about it and when I suddenly remembered this evening, it was a moment of pure joy.
The ice cream is vegan and 35 calories so only loosely in the category of dessert, but I feel like we need to find happiness however we can.
"Alternative facts" are state-sanctioned lies. I will not submit.
Someone once responded to me: "Nothing I write to you can compare to the happiness that this story brought me."
This, however, will be a year of no words.
I miss Philly. I walked everywhere and had a giant apartment. And good friends. School starts again on Monday.