Tag Archives: inspiration

This morning I was speeding up the blocks, hung over, trying to ignore the pounding hollowness in my skull. I hadn’t had enough water after drinking, and I didn’t have anything to eat before leaving. Though last night I had binged on so much flesh.

My face was bare and my hair blew like fat wisps in a blistering wind. Good thing I was wearing my dark green Carhartt jacket–it’s worn and weathered but it keeps me warm. It was so early though. Keeping my eyes open felt like a nuisance. And when I got home and propped open my computer to catch up on work, my mind felt like a fresh wound.

Now I’m trying to decompress from this exhaustion, and use this diary as a stay against my horrendous anxiety. Anxiety about not having a stable source of income even though I have a degree. Apparently it’s really hard to be brown AND get a job. After twelve interviews, and hearing everything from we’ve already filled the position, to we think you’re too creative, to you’re overqualified, and we can’t justify hiring you, or, you’re just not the right candidate (15 interviews!) I feel quite ready to give up.

Though I am still moving forward by working small jobs here and there. It may be possible that this movement is motivated by a deadening depression. To get away from it, I am pushing myself into the world like a blue petunia. Chugging along, only to return to the anxiety which is always threading itself through. Anxiety about not being the same as all other adults insofar as I don’t have a steady job and I don’t have my own place. I’m living with my mother now, my sister, and my mother’s obnoxious boyfriend who should not be here. I can’t even use the bathroom when I want to. I have to stand at the window like a cherub and pee in long, splattering, ungraceful arcs.

Anxiety, a lack of self esteem, an escapist nature is a very dangerous mix, dangerous because of what it makes me do. Constantly running into other mens’ arms, sex is a way to ask if I am desirable even with my foibles and failures. One day, I hope to feel more fulfilled when I can give myself everything that I need.

For a while my writing was gaining momentum from new relationships, my friends’ cats, and from the Maine landscape. City life does not stimulate my creativity. It drains and kills it. My writing is crying out for something different.


July 22, 2013

I keep losing the jewels only to find them again. Yesterday’s epiphanies have grown stale. I needed vision. But today, I have achieved a deepening and darkening of psychological textures. The web is drawn ever tighter, the circle is closing, and there is an end in view. I imagine this end to look like a small pinhole of light, but it is a point that, once reached, opens up into infinity again, because there is always a further place to go. I sit here trying to draw perfect circles and toss the failed ones away like ruined and bent circus hoops. I treasure my circus hoops, though it is frustrating when I don’t get them right the first time. But with time and practice, wisdom and experience, the rate of error can change (?). There are times when I am able to take a snapshot in words of the initial flash and moment of inspiration. It can be perfectly captured. And I assure you that it is more effortlessly captured through mistakes, because poetry is the mind in the act of making one. What are these moments of inspiration? How does one go about recognizing them? Merely, I see the pinhole of light. I put my hands into it and stretch it further. As an artist, my impulse is not to obscure what I already see, but to reveal.