wednesday songs: oh, january,oh, the decemberists; get whatever you want, the shys; rose for the lady, folded light; slip through your hands, the shys; please speak well of me, the weepies; calamity song, the decemberists.
I have so many nerves today. I’ve had so many nerves all week, but they’re showing themselves in crazy ways. I feel like I can’t keep up with everything, so I’m awake until 3 am and waking up at 12 and feeling beset by hysteria.
For some reason I lack an appropriate metaphor for how I feel-it’s like being about to crack an egg? Or jump off of something? There is some dramatic change coming, maybe it’s just going to Israel, maybe something more, I don’t know. Maybe it’s not something I have any control over. Last night, D said to me, “Sometimes you just have to believe something until you believe it.”
Right now, I believe I’m a mess. When I feel this way, it’s usually paired up with guilt around doing the things that make me happy, the weird things that I know preserve my sanity. I’m about to leave the fictional loved ones for a pretty long time, during which we won’t talk, and I won’t be able to pay much, if any, attention to them, but still miss them like crazy, even though I’ll be so distracted and exhausted I might not even notice it.
The difference, of course, between now and six months ago, is that I’m taking writing seriously, instead of feeling like I’m indulging every time I do it. This is both terrifying and remarkable, I think, because I still manage to punish myself in the form of believing that certain writing is important and other writing is not.
I read something the other day, a quote by the painter William Dobell: “A sincere artist tries to create something which is, in itself, a living thing.” For me, fiction is the thing that is the most alive, and maybe that’s why it’s the hardest to do, the hardest to make stand still.