MARCH 11, 2004 (THURSDAY)
Blood Beneath My Fingernails
What little I accomplished today I might as well be proud of. Managed to revise my poems for class; not much, granted, but without sufficient research and background I still cannot write my paper for CL 122, and the children’s stories I am still troubled over because of the fact that for the CW 198 class, I still have to make a storyboard, and for CW 150, I have to present a dummy book, complete with illustrations.
But still, progress is progress. One more item to cross off my list.
What frightens me right now is the sheer potency of what I write. Looking back at the collection I’m submitting to Neil at the end of the semester, I can hardly believe that I’m the one who wrote them. There’s something almost alien about my own verses, and I’m somehow cautious about admitting them as mine. Now don’t get me wrong; it’s not as if I’m completely cutting off my children from me – it’s just that I think I’m at the point where I end up re-examining everything I write and wonder about what the hell is going on inside my brain. I’m tempted to psychoanalyze myself…but I’m leaving that up to OJ, who seems to view me as a ripe specimen for his experiments.
Still, at least at this point I think I can start tracing my development already, and seeing the areas of improvement as well as those parts that still need corrections. When I was younger – like high-school young – I used to want to not be pigeon-holed and I avoided labels like the plague. But then, now I realize that sometimes, one will have a tendency to find a position one is comfortable in, and that sort of ends up as being an identifying mark that allows people to place you in the grand scheme of things.
Maybe it’s also because I am organized, as a person, and so I have a tendency to view these things as something that’s necessary in order for the universe to work properly. Naming is such a large part of reality that the idea of going through life without something to properly correlate you with something else – an interdependence of sorts, save that unlike the biological concept of commensalism, we are reliant on the interplay of words and images to bind us to reality – is somehow unthinkable.
(Okay. Even I cannot understand what I am saying anymore.)
Am itching to finish my requirements already, and move on. It seems that this is just the calm before the storm — it promises to be an interesting summer.