furrow

Blogger has a new interface! This is going to revolutionize the way I write! It's all about context! Context context context!

I am incredibly tired. I am so tired I feel like I will never experience vigour and life ever again. I am giving too much of myself away. But what is "too much"? And why would anyone care, anyway? I am just the machine that checks your temperature every half hour in the depths of the night like Florence effing Nightingale. (Whoops! I'm being too fresh!) 

Somewhat relatedly: "What exactly do you write about?" ask some when I tell them that writing is an activity that I enjoy. These are the same people who grow up to be accountants/corporate lawyers/physics tutors/the kind of literature teachers who wear Tina Fey glasses and speak like physics tutors while wearing a cropped cardigan thinking that it's "edgy". Deep inside — on a very visceral level — I want to snap and say that I love writing ingredients lists on the back of canned produce, and would love to spend my entire life typing "sodium bicarbonate, water, asparagus" into a word processor, because I'm beginning to think it's a ridiculous question. It is ridiculous because when someone says "Hello, I am Jimmy McSurnameSurname and I enjoy playing soccer" no one asks him what sort of terrain he plays on, or "What kind of soccer do you like to play?" 

My rant hasn't ended. When I say "I write poems and occasionally prose" (because I'm losing interest in communicating with said person) it is usually followed by something inane like "Have you written poems about a girl before?" The only answer to that is "Yes, your Mom". 

Writing isn't about categorizing the things you write in tidy boxes which you then whisk away for storage; it's a consequence of language and experience, it's an affirmation of our human-ness. Because it is composed of consequence and expectation, it is simulacra and not experience itself. But it is such amazing, delicious simulacra.