Notice on the Subject of Quality

Much of this is going to be rough work, unedited, often spewed out. This notice, apparently, will be no exception. It's not that I don't have the time right now. I mean, I don't, really, to be polishing blog posts for empty pipes. But it's that I don't trust polish right now, not that I trust any of my writing particularly, and I want to be open about process, about how the sausage is made. This is writing for the part of me that likes the paint splattered on studio surfaces almost as much as the work itself. Practice.

ON practice: So much of the time it just feels like spinning my wheels, the old ruts of now-familiar rhythms and repetitions, cursorily recursive, never diving into anything that means something. Overly casual. I apologize for that. In many, many ways, I wish I was better at this. At least I'm loosening, trying not to be so fucking tense. Seems to be working, to let my limbs down into the mud. Practice.

Casual repetition; the use of motif second-nature because I do it instead of materializing plots, which remain still out of reach. I suspect being more deliberate would be helpful. This isn't the time for this. It's eleven, and I'm fried. It's october and I'm fried. It's twenty twenty two and I'm fried. I'm in college and I'm fried. (The eggs in the dining hall, though, are most often hard-boiled. I will be like them one of these days.) I am twenty three years old and my "voice" is starting to sound more like my body, and I like it.

My body is tired.