In case it’s not obvious from the title I’m thinking about/watching the beautiful documentary about Hubert Selby Jr.
(See that in it’s entirety here at youtube)
I’ve been having a hard time writing lately. Things in my personal life are stressful and ugly in moments. A lot of it hurts. I’m not sleeping well if at all.
Despite how tired and unable to write what I really want to be writing, I am writing a few things that I don’t want to be.
I’m in a state. I know this particular place well. It’s dark and I write things that make other people uncomfortable because I don’t have the energy to really slow myself down.
So I’ll let it out.
I may not show anyone but my closest friends but I will write it.
That had been an issue with my essay collection. Some of it is just so fucking hard and awful to write. I want to make my point but I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to feel those things because that’s how I work. If I think about it I feel it in my body.
Thus sometimes I need to write in my body.
For instance there’s an essay (this one unedited as of yet) in that pile about real serious violent rage. I’m not talking about Lifetime Movie ladylike rage, I’m talking about the kind of rage that turns the tips of my ears to fire and my need to hit whomever or whatever has upset me makes my skull ache.
Those are things in my body and they are things I am often afraid to write about or think about.
No I’m full of shit.
I battle with myself about it because I’m afraid.
I fight with myself even though I know god damn well that I am at my best raw and bloody. Not literally, although somewhere there exists a photo of me with a womans fingers in my bloody mouth. That was hot.
Right, blablabla, exhausted, blablabla pain, blablabla in my body.
I think my point here is to remind myself again that when I try to be some other writer lady who’s image is in my head I suck.
So note to self.
You know what to do.
So get on with it.