i was surprised when i started listening to "dreaming" by Mac DeMarco and finding how much I could relate and how much sense it made to me. i remember once telling a person that I was someone really "grounded in fantasy" (god sounds so pathetic and infantile which i guess is why he laughed) but it's true; i'm not very good with reality or at least i prefer the narratives that exist in people's heads, that are almost fictions (except not really at all any more a fiction than anything else - "all seeing is seeing as" - duh). in a way i feel like it's these types of things that make people R E A L , because once you have these it's like you have this whole sea inside you, this whole sea of yourself, and that's kind of what's beautiful about people. (yes i am writing this – wow, sad) (sad as in pathetic b/c i'm supposed to be like a misanthrope who hates people, because that's the cool thing to do , right ?)
anyway, on the song– i guess sometimes i think about love and think the dream is better, the dream is the only thing that'll satisfy ( maybe [s]he's best in dreams ). who needs real love when you can invent and live through dreams, dreams that bring you closer to you, through which you can learn you (which is really really really what i need right now)
but also i guess i see and i feel and in a sense i think i might even know the other side the other way of feeling it, which is, like, like the dream IS reality, to have enough of a dream (or not "enough" – not "sufficient" – enough in terms of quality, in terms of good enough, full enough, s a t i s f y i n g ) you need to have something "real" in the conventional sense and not in the sense in which i mean it (which is true)the best dream is the one that is your whole life and that one is not all fantasy –it's the one that has the trips to the drugstore and the (annoyingly! fuck!)cold showers and the breakfasts where you sit alone but aren't really thinking about anything except, like, having to go to the bank and like maybe maybe that's better all better because even though it's mundane sometimes it's still a dream and it's still got those bits in it, those bits of magic
magic real .life truth fantasy: MOMENT
".. to be continued .."
(dramatic, like in a movie or an old-timey newspaper serial is where i imagine that phrase to fit, ha)
dreams of being successful,
dreams of being an artist,
dreams of being rich,
of being kind,
dreams of being able to make things that matter,
to do things that make sense,
that make marks,
dreams of being someone with a purpose and fulfilling it,
dreams of being successful,
dreams of being an artist,
etcetera, etcetera, .
I think a lot about what I'm doing, if I'm learning. Why I don't write any more, why I think I can't write any more, why I don't feel like I am doing ok.
I think about what it takes to make it work, to make work, how do you be an artist?
I carry Patti and Robert every where. (Strength. Hope. Possibility.)
am I doing any thing that matters at all?
I have not touched this blog nor written anything in a long time, and I am afraid of what that means. I am afraid because I know that I was once excited and inspired and anxious to write write write write write; to put pen to paper (or finger to key, now), to narrow down thousands of stories and thoughts into things that make sense, mean things, have power.
Love and turmoil. Perhaps a lack of the two (not individually, but coupled together – a fatal mix) has been the catalyst for such languor and laze.
It’s not like I don’t still want to write. It’s not like I don’t still have ideas. (God knows my brain seems to be functioning on some level or another, though it might not be immediately apparent to the casual onlooker.) For some reason I just cannot bring myself to devote the time, the energy, the stasis that is to think, whilst still, about something that I care so much as writing.
Help help help help help me. I plead to no one but myself, ears plugged and eyes shut to the reality that I am letting myself slip.
All this conceptual talk needs something tangible, to ground it. I understand that. I will clarify:
what I mean is that I have always felt like I have been pretending, always felt like I have not been good enough – like I’ve had to scrape and scramble just to qualify as OK and now that I haven’t,
I’ve forgotten how to write the way I once did. Like school, the letting-go means that the façade I’ve worked to maintain for so long is suddenly erased. The letting-go means that that phase is over, that time is done. Never will I have the same frame of mind, that same want and power. All because
I’ve forgotten how to write the way I once did. Just as I’ve forgotten what it was like to care so much about every single infinitesimal moment and detail – to pore over each one in my memory like a jewel, needing to be handled calmly, and carefully. The cataloguing of my personal history as a way to narrow down exactly what I thought and how I felt at each and every moment of the day has ceased-
This decision was a conscious one. It was in part motivated by last half of this past summer’s emptiness, but also because of the “broader” factor that I can only (and most clearly) describe as a kind of fatigue. It is tiring, you know, to be obsessed with things that are essentially false – to be responsible for making stories out of truths only fragments and to then have to write them down, live by them, turn them real. All of that – couching nostalgia for the things that never and will never exist in terms of your average life – all of that is very taxing. And so it is natural that I became tired of it.
It is winter in Massachusetts. Hibernation and disorientation begins to settle in, like it does, every winter. I’m not sure what things will be like for me now, if I will write again. I think I will, but, like I say, I’m not sure. It takes time and effort – this is alright, these are two things I am willing to part with because God knows I throw them both without much thought away all the time – but it also takes will, which I am not sure that I have or that I know how to procure (this is at the very center of my paralyzing fear surrounding this issue).
Once I was told that “to be a good writer, you have to do it every day.” These words did not scare me; for then I was writing every day. But now, with my frail fingers and pale words I’m not so sure any more what that means. How do I live with it? What if I never amount to my hopes?