They handed out little purple and gold new testaments to swarming hoards of early morning college students. Not even early morning. 9:15 or so. I almost attack myself again. For not waking up earlier and writing and feeling zen, if possible. Keep searching for balance. Motivation and execution. Enough hydration for the needs of my moving body. This morning was a sad awakening and I slept in and saw the rosy red violet morning sky and the brightness of the orange night sky with the light pollution hitting both sides of the clouds like flashlights.
I've never heard a more offensive, subjective phrase in literary criticism than what is determined "purple prose." Yesterday, accused of writing in this way, I sat insulted. The phrase has connotations of self indulgence, of pretentious attitudes toward writing, of over-writing. Not sure about over-writing. Does it have to be a best seller? Shouldn't prose imitate life? Isn't life a chain of discordant thoughts that we wish we could edit?
Nonesuch. Nonsense. Used as a bad example. Well did I learn anything? Other than to "tone it down" I am not sure I did. Aggravated by this vague and elusive condemnations, I spiraled into a pit. I couldn't sleep much. Contradictions in descriptions made my writing seem without value. My habits seemed without value. (What habits! You fell off. Get the fuck up.)
By habits I mean the routine of writing, of free writing, in the mornings or during the nights to help excavate the brain a bit, loosen the tie, the knot untangles, whatever. In the morning it is to wake up and connect with the myriad elements within. To write in half French. Half dream. At night would be to write off the day and some nice (or awful) memories to immortalize that day.
What has blocked me so greatly (besides drinking, my girl) is an incessant thought that my writing needs direction otherwise it is worthless. No. What should happen, my little devil, is a return to consistent writing practice, including a study of methodology and the revision of the process through the eyes of my favorite authors (and who the fuck are they anyway?) Do I enjoy any writer or musician with any honesty anymore? Or is it just a wave of envy and self doubt when I read or hear something beautiful? I should be able to write like that. I should sing more. I should I should I should I should.
After the pollack mind explosion free writes (it's like warming up the muscles before fucking cage fighting) it is then time to work on writing stories and poems. Things with rectangular boundaries and page numbers and organization.
It is time to live and write and play with utmost urgency and to no longer feel so dead.
Take Benjamin Franklin's advice about drinking, as he believes it to needlessly muddle the clear mindedness necessary to become successful.
No inspiration comes from drinking that is legible enough to remember.
Another thing. Memory. All of my years of drinking have destroyed my memory. The moments are there somewhere. Buried. All blurred together like melted ice cubes.
What fills in the spaces these memories inhabited.
My mental life is fascinating yet violent to my spirit. Whatever that means. I have horrible negative internal self talk and it is disastrous for many social situations when I need to be cool and collected. I would prefer to be cool and confident all of the time anyway as I never tend to get anything done beyond sitting and stewing in an angry doze.
