Thursday, 7 February 2013
I am reading Michele Roberts memoir “Paper Houses” and Charlotte Bronte’s “Jane Eyre”. I read about being a woman in times past. I remember one of my tutors remarks: "ask yourself if your work would still matter if you were not standing next to it." What difference would it have made if my looks had been any different? Would this have made me happier? Probably I were good at something now. I read about being a woman, from different starting points. I read of approaches that do not exist anymore. I am crying alongside every trail of glittering thoughts. I fall asleep and dream of men who do not exist. I dream of endless landscapes, hedges, intersections, watery leafs like ice and eyes. The cognitive instead of the sensual. As my backdrop Oxfordshire’s nature is exaggerating because it's summer. Nature in England always does. So we both do, always in summer. I am thinking of Eugenides’ marriage plot. Re-read; headline, me processing: "what a manic feels like" - what I feel like, all the time, all the time. That is why I do not dare to move. Because once I start... If I don’t no one gets hurt. Most of all I won't. But this is far from enough. I am listening to the new my bloody valentine album (why didn’t they release it on Feb the 14th?) picked a favourite, if there were still hits that would be the one - only tomorrow. Is this the time to return to my „paper houses“ (diaries, books)? Does appreciating comments on blogger mark a minor identity crisis? Is it about time to leave this place? To return to complete solitude? To cease to exist calmly within this world? I am tired of saying the same all over again. But if I don’t, who will listen. ( I don't know how to be a woman)
EDIT: It's february. depressed. should not write here. jesus I am such a fuck up right now, alienating even my distant distant friends around here.