Monday, 8 March 2010
Today I had to tackle the editing of ELT teacher's notes. One of many monotonous moments I managed to meander through today - including stepping through the splatter of Saharan sand, which settled itself abundantly in these Athenian streets, and on car windscreens last night, to venture to the vet for Holly's stitches to come out. I moan at the necessity to make money, but it must be done, mustn't it? Moreover, my memoir, my current monumental personal project, is making me miserable. Delving into the deep ditches of my past, is a perpetual drain of energy. I wait patiently for inspiration to penetrate through isolated memories; to palpitate pleasantly, and prominently onto the pasty white page. It's nice to take notes non-electronically - not normal anymore, but nice indeed. But as I put pen to paper, my emancipated emotions imprison my professional writing skills. Blubber, babble, gobbledy-goop. What I write is incomprehensible and only makes sense to me. But I'm determined to designate the dominant derivative of my demeanor towards this memoir. I mustn't mutter or grumble about it. I must motivate myself, because deep down I love it. I love literature. And I love the truth. And I'll live to love literature and truth for as long as my body lasts in my little world of capitulated creative chaos. I need a hit. I need an injection of indifference. Inject me, or install it into my illusory information brain implant.