Today I bought myself another journal (four dollars on clearance); I am obsessed with the idea of writing—more so, I think, than the doing. Someone said that language is always an approximation, quite so, concocted of imaginative things. Furtive, fictive, and sometimes heavy in a poignant flamboyance. When I tally my most productive periods I discover that it is easiest to write during the downward slide, the point where both ends are at balance and I am thrown into creative frenzy. Conversely, the upswing works in much the same way, inner monologues—either on myself or some other world—that slosh around, over spilling at random and puddling together. Successful writing, however, requires consistency, motivation to continue on someone else’s time frame rather than only when you are struck by need. There is nothing more frustrating than focusing energy on one thing when its real orientation is toward something else, makes me wish for a button. Worse still when words bubble up and fizzle before any chance of expression or reproduction occurs.
I haven’t a coherent end to this note. The symbolism does not escape me.
…oh hello.
