November 14, 2014

November 14, 2014

Everyday I wake up in the morning to write.  Often I’m in a very sad or angry mood.  Other times, quite cheerful.  Oddly enough, when I start composing my thoughts and thinking what kind of words to put on the empty computer screen or notebook, it is neutral.  I empty out all my fears, desires, being poor, and trying to remember which Brahms’ Symphony I’m crazy for (ah, it’s the 4th).  Nevertheless, I’m swimming in a sea that is endless, and that is why I have restricted myself in working only in the mornings, and must finish the essay by either 11 AM or 1PM (Pacific Standard Time) that day.  As of this being number 318, I haven’t failed yet.  But who knows about tomorrow.   The truth is I made plans to finish this project on December 31, 2014.  I pretty much know that I will wake up each morning, and immediately start thinking about what I’m going to write about.  Obviously by now, there is just one subject.  Me.   But is “me” that interesting?   I can’t tell, because I never felt boredom or even being self-critical.  I literally don’t care what people think of me.  The funny thing is I never think about myself, except in the mornings when I’m writing.  After I finish, and post the piece on Facebook and my blog, I totally forgot what I wrote.

After I finish the work for the day, I often fantasize that I will die.  Death doesn’t bother me, but what bothers me is that I won’t finish this writing project.  If I die this afternoon, the work I have posted will become meaningless.  It will only have meaning if I finish the project on December 31.   So, I do spend time taking care of myself.   I don’t drive, but not only do I not drive, but I also don’t get into cars.  I don’t care who is driving, I just don’t trust fate or that driver will make it to point A to point B.   Buses I don’t have a problem with, because it is rare an accident happens, and even more rare that everyone dies in a bus accident.  So yeah, I have a lot of phobic thoughts, but only when I’m sitting down and composing a narrative, these morbid images in my head disappear and I’m looking into the white light, that is blank as my computer screen.

In the afternoons, I have been working on a memoir about my childhood years.  So far, it’s going OK.  Again, one can go on forever, but I’m restricting myself to a certain period in my life, and I plan not to go beyond that.  As a role model, I’m using Louise Brooks’ “Lulu in Hollywood” and Lord Berner’s “First Childhood.” There is not one wasted word in either of those two memoirs, and I have to keep in mind that the great masses out there really don’t care or are interested in me.  I’m the only one that has an interest in “me.” But only when I’m writing, as I mentioned above, I have no interest in “me” whatsoever.   After spending six hours a day just focusing on myself, I’m usually tired.  Self-reflection is so tiresome. If I didn’t write, I would never bother with it.  I can’t believe that people actually spent time or money on focusing on their identity or not.  If I was going to an analyst, I wouldn’t know what to say.   I guess I would just give him or her this essay, and let them figure it out.  I wouldn’t want to know the results.

The only thing that is important to me is that I finish these series of daily narrations.   I guess I would hope that they will be a book of some sort.  But being practical, it is unlikely a publisher would want to publish all 365 pieces.    I for one wouldn’t read it!   Would you?  Of course not!   So, it is weird that I spend at the very least, six hours a day working on this project.  By the end of the year that will make it 2,190 hours.  So many hours working on just one large body of work.  I don’t socialize that much, because after working, I have very little to say to people.  I tend to like to play music on my turntable.  I’m a fan of Wendy Carlos’ “A Clockwork Orange” soundtrack.   I’m not that crazy when she is doing Bach or some other classical material - I much prefer her own compositions.  I have played this album for friends who come by the house, but then they want to discuss it.  That I found draining.  I like the act of writing and listening to music, but seriously, I don’t think I can discuss it afterwards.  I think what I like about composing words and listening to music is that it’s a verb.  I’m doing something.  Afterwards it becomes a ‘thing, ’ and I just don’t care at that point.  

So, in a nutshell, I like to think of this writing project as an act, or a performance.  What happens afterwards is not all that interesting to me.  Eventually I’ll perish, and turn to dust.  The work I do may live on, but then it just may end up on the third floor of The Los Angeles Downtown Library, and only made available as reference material, meaning one can’t check the book out and take it home with them.   When you see things in that objective light, it is not worth the bother to work for 2,190 hours, that will just eventually end up in a dusty vault. On the other hand, I very much enjoy myself and the act of “doing” is the pleasure itself.