In other news, I half-did my essay and decided that half was enough, proceeding then to waffle on in blog-style about what I would write when the time comes to do it for real: it was only a draft deadline, after all - which isn't really a deadline when you think of it. The essay's about plagiarism and, in particular, the furore that surrounded Bryony Lavery's 'Frozen' when it emerged that she'd nicked some words from the world's favourite fuzzy-headed Canadian, Malcolm Gladwell, and an uptight psychiatrist. It's actually quite an interesting subject - I reckon I can squeeze in brief excursions into cryptomnesia and even past life regression - though I do fear I won't be able to manage being snide and bitchy towards Gladwell, who sort of rubs me up the wrong way with his convenient, and shallow, wool-over-eyes theories and asinine physical descriptions of people that he likes. Not surprised he was so ultimately generous to Lavery: once you've looked deeper and realised his ideas don't really amount to much all you're really left with in his books is a summarised collection of fascinating psychological experiments - or, in other words, other people's work.
Then, for Tuesday, I was supposed to write a short story that began and ended with the same sentence. I had in mind that I could do something about South Elmsall, the sentence being "This is where I'm from," expressing the idea that, in the beginning, that phrase was sort of uttered in disbelief, and in the end, acceptance. But, as before, I couldn't get down to it and just did what I did last week, which was rehash a story I wrote a couple of years back. Well, at least it's not stuff I submitted for my BA - and I do believe I managed to improve on it.
Not being able to write is starting to become a bit of a worry. I mean, this is why I'm here, and sort of what I've set my whole life up to do. But short stories seem sort of pointless, and perhaps longer stories - ie, novels - would do too. When I contemplate what I'm capable of, and what people like Raymond Carver and Roald Dahl have already done, I'm not sure I can be bothered. What's the point in trying to do something in a field where it seems like everything I could achieve has already been done? Of course if it gave me great joy, if it was something I loved to do, then that's a reason. But writing short stories is something I feel I do out of obligation, there's no real drive towards it. Again and again it comes down to my wanting to write memoir-style musings and recollections - and always it feels like that's just about the most frowned-upon area of writing imaginable. Self-absorption, they say. Egotistical young men's drivel. And who am I to say they're wrong? Anyways, it's all getting ahead of myself: here I am and I've stories and essays to write and, whether they flow or produce joy or not, I'm sure they'll get done, and get the grades, and I'll devote my energies to the things I love. Maybe.
I was feeling quite emotional yesterday. I was wandering around Leeds and I got the sense you get when everything has fallen into place, when all the planning and struggles and dreams are over, and life begins. No more flat-hunting, no more job-hunting - no more thinking about whether it'll be an MA or Mexico, or girlfriend to hunt for, or logistics to do with moving, humping possessions, finding sporting outlets. Everything's been done and all that's left is reality. And reality can be scary. Or, at least, my reality frightens me - for what will I be when this year's over? That sense of not being able to write, and not even wanting to write creates an image in my head of the me post-MA and it's a me bereft of anything of this world: a me who has no interest in working or jobs or materialism, who has no more struggle to overcome to be in a position to write whatever he wants - that will have already been done - and a me who will be as weightless and unanchored as a helium balloon. Where will I float to? Will I float to a monastery in Tibet, or massively-bearded to the canyon in Mexico? Or will I float downstream, perhaps in the River Aire, bloated body and a 100-word article in the local paper. Without words there is nothing. And I'm not sure I want them. Certainly, it doesn't appear the world's that bothered...
It's not depressing; it's just a temporary arising, and it's interesting. Of course, all will work out well - he says as a young and non-desperate good-looking guy with a whole lot of years ahead of him. But what if I just go homeless and hairy and mad? Well I suppose there's always the old spirituality to get back to: they don't mind accommodating you when you're between 1 and 3 of those things. Must just remember not to get the girlfriend pregnant; that'll change everything...
I dreamed this morning that she'd had four kids. I also dreamed that I was in a house and a bear was trying to break in. I pushed it out but it got in another way and I think, after a wee bit of toing and froing, it started to eat me. Didn't like that. But when I woke up I remembered how John Milton had once told me that a person should relax into every situation and a little while later I'd applied it in a dream where a bear wanted to eat me and it was all good. Now I'm fighting it. We had unprotected sex last night - as ever, though it's a bit close to the ovulation point - and when I woke I had been thinking 'morning after pill'. But I guess I'll just relax into it.
All humans currently alive came into being 'cos someone put a cock into someone's fanny and spurted semen out of their balls. That's what your mammy and daddy were doing 6-9 months before you were born: getting sweaty and saying, fuck yeah, and, ohmygod and that's why you're here. What the hell. It's a mad, mad world.
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