This has very little to do with cornstarch. It’s got a lot more to do with why I think this blog may be doomed.
I used to write a lot. And by a lot, I mean compulsively. I wrote in the back of my school notebooks, in notepad files, on pieces of paper torn out of whatever I had; I moved up in the world to dedicated writing notebooks, but tended to forget them or tear out pages until there was nothing left; at some point, I discovered the ever so trendy moleskine. I write tiny, so I get the tiny ones. I filled three of them over the course of about two years, bought a fourth this April in Galway, Ireland, and pretty much quit writing. I picked up the current notebook the other day and found I hadn’t written anything except “sunday 8-4 health card lipring”, which I jotted last week at my interview, in nearly four months. That’s a lie. I wrote a couple of disconnected pages about being in Bellingham and being in America, but those shouldn’t count because they are ridiculous.
So. What happened? I used to want to be a writer. I wanted to get published, try to write a novel or maybe stick to short stories, thought about journalism, even fucked around with poetry briefly. That notion got smashed about the same time my other when-I-grow-ups did, but I still wrote. It was part to help me sort out what was in my head and keep my hands and brain occupied when I didn’t know what else to do, and it was part to try to explain why I’m sometimes so odd to other people. I think part of it was that other people’s words have had such profound impact on my life; I wanted to either impact someone else or express myself, how I felt or what I thought, as clearly and forcefully as they did. There have been times I’ve read things and just had to stop and say, “oh my God, how did he get in my head like that?” Times that someone else has articulated something that I could never hope to explain but always wanted to. I think part of writing, for me, was trying to replicate that. I wanted to be as eloquent about my own experiences and make myself as clear as they were. Who was I trying to explain myself to? I dunno. Myself, I suppose. Maybe my friends. Maybe some stranger. Maybe I just wanted to give someone else that sensation of understanding, understanding someone else and at the same time, yourself through the lens of that person. I don’t think that sentence made sense…
Anyway. I’ve been doing more thinking with less writing, and as a consequence, my words are a little less clear. Sometimes I catch myself thinking in something other than words. That is something I can’t pin down or try to explain, so I won’t go into it; just assume I’m insane. As for writing, I think I quit that because in print, I feel mundane. I recently saw the film Me and You and Everyone We Know and really dug this quotation:
“I don’t want to have to do this living. I just walk around. I want to be swept off my feet, you know? I want my children to have magical powers. I am prepared for amazing things to happen. I can handle it.”
So I got tired of just writing about just walking around. I like my life, I do. But I don’t want to write about it anymore. There are so many people who make things sound so… I don’t have the word for it. It’s the way proper poets and good songwriters make the world sound infused with something more. But I don’t want to try to write like that, because I am jaded and pretentious and I hate the people who try to write like that. The people who do write like that are okay. There’s a fine line. These days, every so often, something really amazing happens to me and I just can’t help but scribble it down, try to capture it (I guess for the sake of not-forgetting), but it’s an infrequent occurrence. I just kind of lost it at some point.
The moral of the story is, this blog is gonna suck because I don’t write shit anymore.
Bagel stuff! Today I learned (at least) two things:
1. Corn starch is surprisingly slick on concrete floors (but not as bad as grill oilslicks or strategically positioned creamcheese globs), and
2. wearing black t-shirts at work is kind of stupid, because the powder from our gloves is white and gets all over me.