One
of my professors once asked me whether or not I was yet hearing the voice in my
head. Obviously I didn’t know, since no one has yet asked me- sorry for the
poetry mix. How can you hear one ‘distinct’ critical voice, like the slice from
an armchair perhaps, when there are a million different things clanking about
in your head? It’s hard to listen to one thought in particular- I do, of
course, but it’s difficult.
No
one really knows what it’s like to be within someone else’s head. My mother
tells me that my creative writing professors are a bad influence on me, but I
tell her that isn’t so- although it’s probably my fault, come to think of it,
that I said that writers think it is the norm to be crazy, and that they tend
to think you nuts if you aren’t so-
the
odd thing is, that I don’t really know how to describe myself. I tried to tell
my English professor that once, but she found it incredible that one didn’t
know how to describe themselves, and in the end I got a stupid B for that one-
lousy assignment. I mean, what does it mean to hear your writer’s voice? How
could I possibly describe my head to
other people? Foolish, imbecilic thought. Why am I writing this I wonder? I
think it is because it makes me free to fly over a mountain . . . free so that
I can soar . . .
It’s
that McHale dude. I’m starting to sound like him now. Why do I unconsciously
begin to imitate all of the authors that I read? I don’t believe that my professors
know the truth about me. How could they?
They
are all like grazing antelopes . . .
It’s
a nonsense category.
How
do things get off track like this?
Perhaps-
no one really knows.
It’s
a lot of nonsense.
I’m
writing about nonsense-
I’m
beginning to see a pattern to these short posts, and, while I fear that it is
probably the inexorably worst blog
that most of you have ever read l . . I can’t help myself. Sorry.
Goodbye
for now, darlings ~
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