movement

Got together with a friend and colleague yesterday to talk about our current writing goals, and yes, consume some whiskey. She tells me that she hopes to finish her current chapter by the end of the semester, and I tell her that I hope to do aerobic exercise three times a week, yoga twice a week, and to write something, even a few sentences, everyday. Sentences unrelated to my dissertation. Just to get my fingers moving. Just to get my body moving, to clear my mind, to begin creating a calm and vibrant space in which I can begin to trace the contours of This Stupid Project (title in progress). My friend understands and approves of these as appropriate writing goals.

I am nearly, nearly ABD, so naturally my real goal is to just forfuckssake write a draft of my proposal, finally. I am so close, you see, I just need to figure out the whole shape of my project and write it up to the different likings of three or five different faculty members and in the process continue. reading. so much shit. But I am also so very stuck. I have been stuck for so long that it is hard to even imagine the way to becoming unstuck.

I wrote these words down yesterday:

I do not sit down at my desk to put into verse something that is already clear in my mind. If it were clear in my mind, I should have no incentive or need to think about it . . . We do not write in order to be understood, we write in order to understand. - C. Day Lewis

To remind myself that I don't need to have everything figured out when I sit down to write. To remind myself that in the act of writing I will discover the areas that need more thought and exploration, to remind myself that I am not yet meant to be An Expert.

missing

In a journal, newly purchased, I write that I need to start writing again, that I need to get back into the habit of observing in words. I read this phrase in Writing Fiction by Janet Burroway. I am on page four of this book. I am on page four or ten or fifteen of so many books, discarded in stacks on tables and shelves and floors around my apartment.

I have an afternoon free. I do not write my dissertation. I do not read more on x and y and c topics in philosophy. I do not even read about how to write a dissertation, or how to find the motivation to write a dissertation. I read a book on narrative craft in hopes of finding some motivation or inspiration to write anything at all today. I stop reading on page four. I write down that I need to get back into the habit of observing in words, that I need to start writing again. I open this page. I type that I need to get back into the habit of observing in words.

There was a time when I thought in prose, in narrative language, and poetry. When I was a storyteller. When my inner voice was at heart that of a writer.

She is gone, but before I can write that the question is there, Where did she go?

I hear this question in v's voice because it is a question that she asks me all the time: If you are not fully here, if you are not in your body, where are you? Where do you go?

I never have an answer to this question; it is always nowhere or I don't know.

dear jordan, there's bars out here for miles

not everyone survives. (you know this.) sometimes I wish I could ask you how we did it. not because I need reasons or ways. and not even because I need to understand the difference between you and me and someone who dies alone in a truck in a field.

I need to know that you still saw something in me when I was at my worst. I don't mean some kind of strength to pull through, or that sort of thing, but I need to know that you saw me. that I was not, am not, unknown. that I am not as ordinary as you later made me feel and as I have been feeling lately. that I wasn't always expendable.

I don't even know if I have faith anymore that you understood or would understand. you are so far away. but if not you, who, really.

so, have you figured it all out yet, how to be happy, how to be sad and kind, how to be.

m

if you can't say anything nice

7 was magnetic.
4 had a charming smile.
15 taught me how to read.
9 forgives.
5 was unbelievably witty.
10 was easy to talk to.
26 was a kindred spirit.
8 is adorable when he's happy.
14 has accomplished great things.
11 has great taste in books.
12 is dedicated and hard-working.
16 really tries sometimes.
6 taught me some of what it takes to be in a healthy relationship.
13 has survived under toxic conditions.
22 was a great friend.

facts

I made a list of people who have hurt me in some significant way. Here are some facts about that list.

There are 31 people on the list.
26 of the people on the list are men.
11 of the men have first names that begin with the letter J.
7 of the men have last names that begin with the letter W.
1 last name is unknown to me.
6 people share a name with someone else on the list.
2 more share the same name with different spellings.
There are 9 people whose middle names I know.
4 are people that I met in the last 5 years.
8 have done things that hurt me in the last 3 years.

I estimate that 1/2 of the people on the list are taller than me.
Around 18 are older (or probably older) than me.
4 have served in some branch of the military.
4 have talked to me about being suicidal.
I have seen 1 of the people on the list in the hospital.
Everyone on the list is alive.
2 are invited to my wedding.
3 were once on the guest list but were removed.
3 are probably reading this.
There are 8 people on the list I would describe as gross.
There is only 1 person on the list I would describe as ugly.
There is only 1 person on the list who I think probably does not have any redeemable qualities.
To my knowledge only 1 person on the list actually fucks horses.

11 lied about things I can remember off the top of my head.
7 have told me they love me.
1 person on the list probably does not know that he hurt me at all.
2 still owe me a breakup phone call.
9 know that I am a survivor.
1 relationship has been repaired.
I would say that I am completely over 20 of these people and/or whatever happened between us.
The other 11 still hurt sometimes.

It's hard to stay mad at number 15 because I feel sorry for him.
It's hard to stay mad at 9 for the same reason.
I am still the most utterly confused by 21.
8 seems completely unnecessary.
7 hurts the worst.
5 and I did the most damage to each other.
6 did not mean to hurt me.

change l'air

get angry

be angry, burn everything

grieve in your toes and fingertips

get stung by scorpions in your dreams

talk to people who say the right things, people who say the wrong things, people who say no thing

be kind to yourself

learn and remember, remember again to listen when people tell you who they are

open the windows, abre la puerta

be better

let the new air in

In his dreams God was much occupied. Spoken to He did not answer. Called to did not hear. The man could see Him bent at his own work. As if through a glass. Seated solely in the light of his own presence. Weaving the world. In his hands it flowed out of nothing and in his hands it vanished into nothing once again. Endlessly. Endlessly. . . . And somewhere in that tapestry that was the world in its making and in its unmaking was a thread that was he and he woke weeping (149).

There is but one world and everything that is imaginable is necessary to it. . . . Every least thing. This is the hard lesson. Nothing can be dispensed with. Nothing despised. Because the seams are hid from us, you see. The joinery. The way in which the world is made (143).

Cormac McCarthy, The Crossing