Throughput

I've been feeling sapped of the will to post anything for a while. And just as I was about to jump back into the midst of it, I read this, for the lack of a better word, perfect caricature of "poor little me". I laughed, sure, but this was a little too close to home. I've literally spent the last week locked up, or grudgingly going out and nursing that literary ambition. But at no point have I been less pleased with what I've produced. I remember telling my friend a week ago about my latest endeavor in passionate terms; now that I think of it, I should have thrown in the word "ourobouros"--because I've managed to take all the steam out of my sails by having the thrust of the text collapse under solipsistic fucking self-reference. (Losing steam is kind of like when a kid can only do a trick when nobody's looking.) And now what? Well, output proceeds apace, but it is unsatisfying output. I don't want to be raw or long-winded; I don't want hyperrealism; I don't want conscious intertextuality; I don't want -esques and -isms; no intentionally self-conscious stream of consciousness either. But what, then? If I don't let up on myself, I'm off to get drunk and see what happens.

What have I done recently? What experiences can I mine for content? I sat on a roof. I probably failed to stop a complete stranger from commiting suicide. I reaffirmed my love of cats. I watched two movies in a row. I read for two days straight. I upset my mother. I dreamt sparse romantic period piano sompositions. I sang negro spirituals ("swing low, sweet chariot") and wished I believed in all that "God" bullshit. I dashed my brain against Maxwell's equations. I set the aerial photograph of a run-down Guangzhou tenement as my desktop background. I wrestled with a bowl of Kraft Dinner into the wee hours of the night. And I decided to take the advice of an inspirational Ziggy calendar from August 1986 which hangs on my wall. So what?

(You should have just read the article I linked and left it at that.)

Consider: "Karuna."