Wednesday, April 27, 2011


Strangely, I am blocked in writing this blog right now. I wonder if this means I should stop or keep on eking out these little fragments? (do you eke? eek? is this even a word?) Yet I am spurting forth today, the essay book. Actually this is causing me some anxiety, the flow. I am dangerously writing TOO much, I am being TOO excessive, this book about the excessive. Although to me the flow the purge is better than the block. At least psychically. Yesterday....NOTHING came. And I wrapped myself in melancholy, I sobbed in the shower, I went to the Whole Foods and sat outside in the 80-something heat and ate vegan egg rolls. I bought guacomole and almond milk chocolate ice cream. I think I'm getting my period.  But sometimes this life of being alone and writing is absolutely agonizing. I want to be done with the book, and take a break, and go to coffeeshops and read. That's all I want to do, is go to a coffeeshop and read Thomas Bernhard novels or something. I'm not very good at working too much, staying disciplined for too long. Like today, I had a good day, then I crawled in bed and watched Glee. I don't even like Glee. 

I am looking to see if I can post something from what I wrote all feels too new, now.Okay something very small:
The hysteric nonetheless told stories. That’s what I need to do here. Tell stories. She told stories and they were woven into something else. A sort of alchemy: art, science.