Rather than kick street clothes and other paraphernalia to the ground, I’ve been letting it clutter at the foot of my bed in the hopes that one day my belongings will entomb me and I will live in perfect harmony with the best of what thrift stores have had to offer.
I’ve been too exhausted after work and the obligatory after-work drink(s) to begin fully the long project of my written piece. I plan to reference E. M. Cioran’s A Short History of Decay, Eugene Thacker’s After Life (not my favorite…) and probably some of the shorter fiction of Barthelme, Ligotti, Lovecraft, and, of course, The Anatomy of Melancholy. This is all likely to change within a day, of course. I’d like to continue the task of trying to write with photography in the style of my piece in Papersafe Magazine, in which case, I will likely turn to my only trusted work on photography-cum-literary theory, Camera Lucida.
Being an only child really lends itself to writing since you’re always already in conversation with yourself.
I wonder about the impact of imagined interactions both from dreams and waking life. Like people I know, my thoughts about them, come not only from what they’ve said and done but also from what I’ve imagined them to have said and done. A lot of what’s imagined is necessarily that which wouldn’t occur outside of imagination, and this probably has a lot to do with both how love and hate emerge.
The night before last I managed to wake from sleep every hour nearly on the hour each time. At each interval, I recalled less nightmares and more anxious thinking about flying and my failed relationship(s). There’s another kind of sleep I have where I sleep through for about 2/3 hours and wake aghast after some kind of all-too-apt nightmare (proper). I usually fall back to sleep after about 4 hours of looking at my phone in search of something mindnumbing. Then, last night I managed to sleep straight for 5 hours and woke up suddenly without any real reason, but my mind was hurried and I had many restless thoughts about every little human stupidity for the next 5 hours and then, of course, just had to finally drag myself out of bed lest I miss the people who are coming to fix the heater. Who, of course, aren’t here though they were due about an hour ago now. This concludes the three types of sleep I have.
One of the hurried thoughts I had last night was that I would like and would like others to post here about their lives, thoughts, and writing process(es)/blockages.
Peep this overview of stratoanalytic thought: