A List Of Things I’m Thinking About Right Now

I wrote this like two weeks ago and didn’t hit publish because I wasn’t sure. Tonight I care less and it just sort of seems quaint.

Here’s how it looks when a writer doesn’t want to write but writes anyway, and just writes about anything and everything on their mind to move past it.

Today I feel irritated.

Which makes for a either a ranty or boring post.

Nobody wants to read about other peoples irritation — it’s so cringe-worthy and lame, especially at face value, so if you want to skip to the next section, totally understand.

I feel… like, “no thanks — but thanks though”

Last night I had an improv show. It went fine.

Afterwards, we went out for pizza and drinks, and although I like everyone in the group, the whole experience felt like work. Am I smiling enough? Am I asking enough questions? Am I responding to whatever people are saying with “cool” too many times?

My feet were hot and my eyes were dry from being attentive and so I rolled out like “k bye y’all.”

I feel irritated

Sometimes it feels like people and things are hanging on me physically, or they feel like work, or they feel like a million tiny jabs on my attention and it’s draining in an acute and almost physical way.

It feels like a screaming monkey — a wiggling, thrashing creature inside a cage, flailing with its little fists on the bars and shrieking at any small stimulation, any tiny perceived “injustice,” such as having to repeat myself in conversation, or having to interrupt my internet surfing, or having to deal with a broken printer, this instantaneous spark of a response; a split second in which I am completely unable to cope and form a reasonable, rational and conscious response.

I feel angry

Not all the time, but in sharp little moments. Like a rabid, furious, biting creature — something scared; something that attacks and bites only out of violence and flailing self-defense, with no purpose for nourishment. A snapping, sharp creature.

I feel lost

It feels like falling backward indefinitely. Like the sensation of having “the spins” in bed after drinking too much, except it’s all the time — standing, sitting, laying down, listening to others talk, having to do something, etc.

I feel indulgent

Like, can’t wait to grab lunch and a beer later.

I feel confused

Is writing productive or indulgent? Is the coffee indulgent? Drinking? Am I being lazy or am I working

I feel fine

Probably.

At its best, like calm, full, forward energy, expansive and direct; “immortal.”

(But seriously please stop hanging on me.)

Things I’m thinking about

I wish I knew how to write shorthand

I’ve always wanted to learn shorthand and I still feel this way. I do a lot of my writing longhand (i.e., “on paper,”) and very often my writing moves agonizingly slow compared to my thoughts, and it’s like having to explain something to a child while they scramble frantically to keep up.

I dislike the sensation of having hair

And I love the sensation of the pixie.

After chopping off all my hair (which was fully grown-out; more than a paltry 6 inches but less than the Locks of Love requirement of 10) and getting a pixie cut for the first time a few months ago, I am now growing my hair out into a bob, but after getting the pixie, I now realize how deeply I dislike the sensation of hair. I’m primarily growing it out because a.) my partner likes bobs and b.) I don’t care enough to have a strong, identity-based opinion on my hair so why not?… but part of me also feels resentful that I’m doing it for the explicit combination for these two reasons, and irritated at the hair itself.

What I want to do with my writing

I love writing and I like “being a writer.”

My issue is that sometimes it’s like everyone in the writing space is either a.) flailing and complaining like writing is rocket science and they can’t figure out “the secret” or “the process” of “how to put shit on paper,” b.) complaining because, although they figured out how to put shit on paper, they’re still broke because somehow they were the last to learn that writers don’t make money, or c.) obnoxious dweebs, especially those who feel compelled to name drop or compare to other writers, like it’s the most fascinating part. (It’s not.)

This piece

And what the hell I’m doing with it.

I’m hungry

And I’m wondering if it’s too early to grab lunch. It’s 12:30 already, but somehow that feels early. I haven’t finished either my coffee or this essay, and I know as soon as I mention grabbing lunch, my partner’s response is gonna be “oh, you’re finished?” and then I’m gonna have to deal with that tiny sighing flail inside my chest as I answer “no” and mentally map out when I’m going to finish and defend against the giant suck that is a Saturday afternoon.

What to do with my afternoon

Not just this one, but all of them. I struggle with this. I don’t understand how to “leisure” well — it either feels unhealthy and indulgent (day drinking), or prescriptive and contrived (working out??) I want to work, but often my “work” involves huge, yawning spans of time that become peppered by buzzfeed and twitter and reddit and that doesn’t necessarily feel all that good either.

How do we “life?”

(See above.)

I should shower after this

Cold.

(edit: and then I did!)

Things I should be thinking about but am not

The 2 or 3 essays I’m working on, at least one of which I want to submit to other publications — as well as submitting in general

Instead, I’m thinking about: the logistics of submitting them, why I need to submit them, whether I even want to, of course I want to, why wouldn’t I want to, what is my problems.

Nothing — I should be working

Or enjoying.

But either way: it’s very rarely productive to be stuck in our heads. Nothing happens there.

And so, again: the strain with the writing.

We can either be living life, or we can be writing about it. When we’re writing about it, we can’t also be living it, but sometimes we have to write about it to know that we lived it before, or to get ourselves wrung out and ready to live it again. Otherwise, we stay saturated and sodden, unable to move on.

Writing is cleansing — but only if it’s quick. Only if we move through it. Only if we lovingly twist the experience from our bones, our palms wrapped around it rough and tender; conscious but casual, like the hands of a farmwife hanging wet laundry to dry.

Today I feel alright.


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