The time is out of joint
Feb. 5th, 2015 08:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vaneramosThat quote from Shakespeare comes to mind, and I have to go look it up. Hamlet said it after seeing his father's ghost.
I'm not haunted as Hamlet, and yet... Last night as we were getting up from our habitual dinner and British TV indulgence, the words came out of my mouth, "I don't want to."
"Don't want what?" Danny asked.
Reflecting briefly, I said, "To be busy."
"Then don't."
It's easy advice.
We're getting ready to move. I had in mind not taking on any unnecessary writing assignments until we're done, the end of March. Things haven't turned out that way. I can't afford to turn it down. It's not heavily demanding, but still I have a sensation of juggling too many balls.
Last night I dreamt about school. Such dreams I've always interpreted to mean I haven't arrived where I want to be. School represents the act of growing up, getting there, hints of inadequacy.
I was in grade 13 and we were doing our English homework in a university-style cafeteria (bigger and with posher, more permanent tables). Neal, my neighbour and best friend through most of school, but who I haven't had anything to do with since we graduated, was sitting to my right. Don was sitting across (I reunited with him last summer) and a fourth boy was on his right: I think Russell (who is dead now).
I only talked with Neal. He showed me the three books we were supposed to have read for homework. They were small books, little more than zines, not a lot of work really. But I'd procrastinated.
In my memory of adolescence I was always procrastinating badly. I was too good a student to have procrastinated as much as I remember. I always handed in assignments on time. Homework I'm not so sure about. I seem to recall never quite finishing everything, but suffering no consequences because I understood everything and did well on tests. It's really hard to pin down the reality, except that I felt caught between Mom nagging me to do homework, praise from my teachers and my own creative desire to escape into fantasy worlds. Only at university, away from Mom's sway, would my lack of concentration lead to mediocrity.
In the dream, several weeks or months of the semester had passed, and I hadn't done any of the required reading. Being around Neal didn't make it any happier.
By the time Neal and I had grown up together we had many tensions and unspoken grievances. We started drifting apart in grade 10 and were never as close again, even though we lived next door, road the bus together, sat together in classes and hung out with the same circle of friends part-time: the library crowd. He did other things with other friends, and that was part of the difference between us.
Neal was a whiz at math and technology. He was the first person I knew with a home computer. In 1980 he had built it himself from basic components and an old TV. He experimented with some dangerous adolescent things, but somehow made such a recovery that he won a most improved student award at graduation.
Meanwhile, I played it safe, never flirted with danger, towed the line, did homework at the last minute and always excelled. My favourite subjects were English and art. Neal looked down on artsies. I went to university for biology partly because people expected me to go into science (everyone implied it would lead to real career, unlike literature, music or art). But Neal said biology was "practically artsy." Don, Russell and Neal all went into some form of engineering, technology or computer science.
It's interesting that in a dream about Neal I still feel inferior.
I don't procrastinate so badly anymore. To finally achieve my dream of becoming a freelancer over the past three years, I've had to find my own system and motivation. Deadlines help, but I don't have anyone nagging me. The work will get done in time. I'm confident of that.
But the past lack of confidence, a half-remembered sense of improvising what I know, wells up like a shadow from the basement.
My relationship with writing feels weird. During December and January I wrote a memoir about my coming out experience for a new anthology. It was my first attempt to write a comprehensive account of that highly traumatic time. It traced my sexual identity from late adolescence, my born again experience at 19, years of evangelical church life, the ex-gay movement and its slow, devastating effect on my mental health. Ultimately I chose life over self-destruction, but lost my marriage, church community and all my friends. The memoir leads up to that moment of choice, self-acceptance, loneliness and hope.
It was hard to write. Everything else seems frivolous now. I'm back in high school with too much to do and not enough time. I don't feel inadequate, just tired and overwhelmed. Somehow I have to find my wordsmith groove again.
I'm not haunted as Hamlet, and yet... Last night as we were getting up from our habitual dinner and British TV indulgence, the words came out of my mouth, "I don't want to."
"Don't want what?" Danny asked.
Reflecting briefly, I said, "To be busy."
"Then don't."
It's easy advice.
We're getting ready to move. I had in mind not taking on any unnecessary writing assignments until we're done, the end of March. Things haven't turned out that way. I can't afford to turn it down. It's not heavily demanding, but still I have a sensation of juggling too many balls.
Last night I dreamt about school. Such dreams I've always interpreted to mean I haven't arrived where I want to be. School represents the act of growing up, getting there, hints of inadequacy.
I was in grade 13 and we were doing our English homework in a university-style cafeteria (bigger and with posher, more permanent tables). Neal, my neighbour and best friend through most of school, but who I haven't had anything to do with since we graduated, was sitting to my right. Don was sitting across (I reunited with him last summer) and a fourth boy was on his right: I think Russell (who is dead now).
I only talked with Neal. He showed me the three books we were supposed to have read for homework. They were small books, little more than zines, not a lot of work really. But I'd procrastinated.
In my memory of adolescence I was always procrastinating badly. I was too good a student to have procrastinated as much as I remember. I always handed in assignments on time. Homework I'm not so sure about. I seem to recall never quite finishing everything, but suffering no consequences because I understood everything and did well on tests. It's really hard to pin down the reality, except that I felt caught between Mom nagging me to do homework, praise from my teachers and my own creative desire to escape into fantasy worlds. Only at university, away from Mom's sway, would my lack of concentration lead to mediocrity.
In the dream, several weeks or months of the semester had passed, and I hadn't done any of the required reading. Being around Neal didn't make it any happier.
By the time Neal and I had grown up together we had many tensions and unspoken grievances. We started drifting apart in grade 10 and were never as close again, even though we lived next door, road the bus together, sat together in classes and hung out with the same circle of friends part-time: the library crowd. He did other things with other friends, and that was part of the difference between us.
Neal was a whiz at math and technology. He was the first person I knew with a home computer. In 1980 he had built it himself from basic components and an old TV. He experimented with some dangerous adolescent things, but somehow made such a recovery that he won a most improved student award at graduation.
Meanwhile, I played it safe, never flirted with danger, towed the line, did homework at the last minute and always excelled. My favourite subjects were English and art. Neal looked down on artsies. I went to university for biology partly because people expected me to go into science (everyone implied it would lead to real career, unlike literature, music or art). But Neal said biology was "practically artsy." Don, Russell and Neal all went into some form of engineering, technology or computer science.
It's interesting that in a dream about Neal I still feel inferior.
I don't procrastinate so badly anymore. To finally achieve my dream of becoming a freelancer over the past three years, I've had to find my own system and motivation. Deadlines help, but I don't have anyone nagging me. The work will get done in time. I'm confident of that.
But the past lack of confidence, a half-remembered sense of improvising what I know, wells up like a shadow from the basement.
My relationship with writing feels weird. During December and January I wrote a memoir about my coming out experience for a new anthology. It was my first attempt to write a comprehensive account of that highly traumatic time. It traced my sexual identity from late adolescence, my born again experience at 19, years of evangelical church life, the ex-gay movement and its slow, devastating effect on my mental health. Ultimately I chose life over self-destruction, but lost my marriage, church community and all my friends. The memoir leads up to that moment of choice, self-acceptance, loneliness and hope.
It was hard to write. Everything else seems frivolous now. I'm back in high school with too much to do and not enough time. I don't feel inadequate, just tired and overwhelmed. Somehow I have to find my wordsmith groove again.
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Date: 2015-02-09 02:42 am (UTC)Over the last 2 weeks, I have completely reorganized my workroom. it now has a space for writing, a space for egging, and a space for something else I have been muddling around with. My intent was to create an inviting space for this stuff to happen. It felt like they would be more likely to happen if they felt welcome. Now I feel creative-like stirrings on the periphery of my consciousness, like skittish foals wanting to come near, but their fear outweighs their curiosity. Why is this? What's going on? Where's the carrot that I can hold out to them?
To back up my sincerity, I even went out on a limb with Meetup.com and created a group for egging. I've done all I can, short of forcing myself to sit down the just DO IT goddammit, which feels like using a stick when I know carrots are better.