September 21, 2004
Intersections of Old and New
It has been pointed out to me that in one part of my human rights paper, instead of writing "innate," I wrote "inane." And, for some reason, I can't bring myself to care enough to change it right now.
This is the depressing part of Plan. When you have a bunch of shit written from Before, and you don't feel connected to it-- don't even want to feel connected to it-- but it keeps popping up, like a disgruntled meter reader. Can someone just, you know, fix it for me? Add in the things I think now, change the parts that sound stupid, insensitive, or just downright crunchy, and maybe make me some blueberry tea?
This is too harsh, I know. There is some good stuff there, some beginnings, but it seems to get buried down in details that I not only don't care about, but am not even sure I believe I should be writing about.
I need more time to sit in the laundry room and bounce my rubber ball and sing. Forget the blueberry tea, and bring me some JD.
"... suicide is painless..."
I have a fair amount written on my project and independent piece, which is nice, but then I'm also completely unsure whether it is actually Plan-esque writing. I mean, can I really talk about the voices I hear? And the time I spent in a mental hospital? And the way I get uncomfortable walking down the cereal aisle in the grocery store? This thing is printed, bound up, and stored in a small room near the entrance of the library for eternity, right?
Oh, like the Internet. But less visible.
Sometimes, still, I hear voices. Who they are isn't important, really, nor is their dialogue anything that should concern you. I mention them only because I have a story to tell you, another one, about a manila folder that sat on my desk for no other reason than to provide a hospitable memory, out of concern for justice, for the voices I heard.
I have a story to tell you, another one, about a manila folder that sat on my desk. A story and an idea. A few ideas, I guess. I have a story and some ideas and they all came together in a small manila folder where I put the things that really mattered to me but had nothing to do with my Plan of Concentration. These things, these mistakes, these discrepancies, appeared in textbooks and anthologies of poetry, in essays and on the radio, and they struck me, as things sometimes do, that there was something about them, something important. Not important to my Plan, but important to me. Somehow, they spoke to the voices I heard. Those square pegs, as it were, in the world that relies on round ones, spoke to the voices, and the voices, in turn, spoke to me.
At least I still have chocolate.
Posted by Sean at September 21, 2004 12:15 AM