the result of automatic writing and free association:
This is really awful. A week after I promise to post more, I find myself unable even to think about writing for myself, writing for pleasure. Part of it has to do with the recent terrorist attacks--a mix of fear, anticipation, uncertainty, and a strange numbness wash over me alternately, leaving me, on the average, more numb than anything else. The fatalist in me is reading up on anthrax and biological weapons, in anticipation of what it considers the inevitable, while the rest of me abhors the notion that we're about to engage in a war that has no planned victory conditions, no foreseeable ending... The perfect war machine, set in motion with no parameters, no conclusion--nothing could be more desirable to america's ruling class. There's even that brief fear that, by writing this, by feeling this way, I'll wind up filed away in some list of people to be rounded up for disagreeing, for thinking beyond what CNN has been telling me to think, a leftover of my last reading of 1984, to be sure. All these thoughts come free and unbidden into my head, uninvited, unwelcome, and certainly unwilling to leave me in peace, and now I can't write about anything else, anything other than not being able to write and about the things that make me feel unable to write. A dream of a shadow of smoke, and drowning in pale water. And so he dances out the gaiety of his youth, and all the while he is in a storm.
In my mind is the sound of beckoning ships.
This is really awful. A week after I promise to post more, I find myself unable even to think about writing for myself, writing for pleasure. Part of it has to do with the recent terrorist attacks--a mix of fear, anticipation, uncertainty, and a strange numbness wash over me alternately, leaving me, on the average, more numb than anything else. The fatalist in me is reading up on anthrax and biological weapons, in anticipation of what it considers the inevitable, while the rest of me abhors the notion that we're about to engage in a war that has no planned victory conditions, no foreseeable ending... The perfect war machine, set in motion with no parameters, no conclusion--nothing could be more desirable to america's ruling class. There's even that brief fear that, by writing this, by feeling this way, I'll wind up filed away in some list of people to be rounded up for disagreeing, for thinking beyond what CNN has been telling me to think, a leftover of my last reading of 1984, to be sure. All these thoughts come free and unbidden into my head, uninvited, unwelcome, and certainly unwilling to leave me in peace, and now I can't write about anything else, anything other than not being able to write and about the things that make me feel unable to write. A dream of a shadow of smoke, and drowning in pale water. And so he dances out the gaiety of his youth, and all the while he is in a storm.
In my mind is the sound of beckoning ships.
