shitting psitanium

It won’t come out.
I reach back through a patch of disheveled relevancies, mismatched associations. Poke fingers of my thought through phrases lacking clauses, crumpled paragraphs that won’t fan out into their sentences.

Want very much to be angry. Hungry for anger if that makes sense.

Can’t write it till you’ve chewed it up, swallowed and digested it. The lyric is the shit.
The shit that feeds the tree.

Disheveled irrelevancies, old interlocking symbol sets.

Been reading up in Wikipedia on the science of the brain. It’s fun to follow the cul-de-sacs and turnabouts that connect and reconnect the sciences of brain and mind. As if science itself were a gigantic brain, which may or may not be inhabited by an invisible part.

Today will be a day I hate the phone. Almost typed hat the phone. Typo demons and all today. I have already hatted the phone in a sense, by answering a call from our phone service company where the tech talked me through creating a new voicemail box. Then I showed Lisa how to use it just now. In another, unrelated sense, however, I’ve been hating the phone as its ringing grates against my hurty feelings and thoughts, and I feel intruded upon.

Serves me right for feeling and thinking at work, cha.

The self-dissatisfaction is back, which in its way is a good sign. Dave was telling me yesterday: look, when you stop writing, first you always get down on yourself for not writing, and then it starts to scare you, then you kick yourself in the ass and write something awesome. But I know, too, that my today feelings are an early-to-mid step in the process. As I’m fond of saying, you can’t write something till you’re out the other side of it. And I do agree with everybody and their brother that it’ll take time.

I just wanna write something else, think about something else. Like climbing up a hill in a snowstorm when the bus stop shelter thing is at the top of the hill. You’re looking at the shelter and saying to yourself, Oh, dog, if I could just already be at the top of the hill and in that shelter, this snow wouldn’t be nearly as bad and I’d be so much more all right, I can’t wait. But you know, even if you try not to dwell on it, that once you’ve gotten into the shelter and caught your breath, you’ll realize how cold your feet and hands and face are and that your socks are wet, and all you’ll be able to think about is the bus that’ll bring you home. That, I think, is a really good analogy. Because while what I’m going through right now is hard and painful, the thing that follows it is no walk in the park either.

Respect your elders, girlie. Processes like this one are older than your species. Recognize, foolish human! Recognize your state so as not to stumble and get all tangled up and get in the way of your own transformation, thereby dragging it out into something much longer and harder!

I like my environmental mana but I’m angry at magic, because the next thing I need to work on is hard for me. Reality always being more limited and requiring of effort than fiction, that makes me mad too. And even mana exchanges are disrupted right now cause my personality’s all swirling and agitated from bereavement and everything shifting to new alignments. I hardly know how to feel about the taig right now. And I love the taigs of the places I go!

Yesterday when I got home I guessed wrong on the top lock on the front door (thought it was unlocked; it was locked). Which was my sign that my emotional state was not well settled and it was a good night to doubly examine all my judgments before speaking up. Kind of how Dad would try and win three games of Solitaire using his system and if it didn’t work, he’d know his mind wasn’t in its most optimized state. At any rate that sign was dead right; I kept finding myself thinking things that would have been really, really mean—mean to Dave, to me, to the memory of Dad even. But I didn’t say even one of them! Which is a huge improvement over the times even a year ago, let alone in college, when I’d get in the particular mood that one turned out to be. I’d just blurt out something horrible when the emotional pressure inside my mind was high and I didn’t think of any other way to relieve it.

I’m angry at science, too, because I still do kind of suck at it. No, really. Reading sciencey stuff has made me remember what a vast body of knowledge, training and discipline a person needs to be able to innovate within a field of science. You can half-ass your way through everything and still get papers published, yeah. But if you want to really make inroads against a theory, let alone establish a new model or hypothesis, you’ve got to work like an irritable god is watching over your shoulder.

So there’s many pressures in my mind right now. And I can’t let myself think too hard about any one of them, because at the moment I’ve just gotta put one foot in front of the other, mentally as well as physically. Science and magic, poetry and psychology, my theories and Dad’s theories and everybody’s stories. Rent. Shelving. Groceries. Politics.

Oh and now it’s worky time. Let’s working.
I am so gonna try and get myself a lunch break today. I could really use one. I am so fucking hungry.