I read this back, this blog, and it is insipid. I censor things, so as not to hurt people. I have other writing that's more personal, but even less considered. In some ways it is less important. I want to think harder about what I write and make more of an impact. I hide behind quotations of various sorts. I do group them around things I'm thinking about, but I have been failing to interrogate them properly, so that nobody else understands them (which is partly in self-defence, that I wish I could get past), but it means that I might forget why I found them important at a particular moment, too.
I try and write blog entries in half hours, and I need to find several hours. Time for finding the references that have influenced my day or my week or my life, time for typing them up (!), time to sit down and think about why they are important to me. If I did that, though, I would find all of the points where the quotations I use are not enough for the thoughts I'm thinking, and I'd try and write my own. Which would be a good thing, but I'd need to be writing all day, all of the time. I found the poem I wrote when Paddy died, after a bit of a hunt. I was pleased with that, despite how painful it was to write. I could concentrate on writing about the fear of a damaging love just then, because I was escaping from feeling for her to a certain extent. Still feel I should have done more for her. Another story. But I wrote that fast. I often don't write very fast, not that kind of writing. I have a million ideas for thinking about, and can't get them on to paper before the next one comes along. I end up sloshing prose, or approximating with other people's poetry, when what I want to do is focus and distil and make pictures that say what I think and feel.
I have lost something unbelievably important. At least lost in one way. I know I haven't lost it entirely, because I have also for a while had possession of the greatest thing anyone ever can have. It is lending an urgency to my need to write. This height of feeling does not, must not, last, and I want to be able to remember the shape of it, while I can just bear the pain of it. Before I have to put it aside and forget about feeling for a bit. I must be numb for a while, in order that when I come back to all of this (I will come back to all of this) the raw edges of the wound where it has had to rip away have had a chance to heal a little.
I'm sorry. I probably share too much. I'm safe enough while few enough people who know me and my life well read this, and I need to say these things, somewhere. Not just to myself, where I can imagine I imagine. I could go back to LJ and lock things, but I don't like LJ. Let me know if (when) I go too far.
One-Pot Chicken Pesto Pasta by Erica
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