pure FORESHADOWING (nifra_idril) wrote,
pure FORESHADOWING
nifra_idril

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Visions and Revisions.

You know, when I get packages in the mail, I often forget things like, a) I paid for these and b) I'm only going to have to read these so that I can end up writing papers on them and c) this adds to the huge amount of things I should spend my free time working on that doesn't include pretty, pretty, shiny porn. I get all OHMYGOD SOMEBODY LOVES ME! BOOKS! THEY SMELL NEW! STUFF FOR ME! ME! ME! It's like my birthday all over again. This lasts for several hours.

Then I look at syllabi and realize, "Wait. *WHAT*'s due next week?" And the joy fades.

But the books still smell new! This, at least, cannot be taken away from me by due dates. Take that! Hah! *sniffs books triumphantly, if rather oddly, indeed*

So, I kind of want to do a poll, and yet...I have no poll type questions to ask at this time. Which saddens me, because am I not an inquiring mind? Do I not want to know? Apparently not. *sighs* My self-image is sadly mistaken. So what I'm'a'gonna do fer ya instead is spam you with one of my favorite poems of all time, because I re-read it this morning and honestly, it's just so *lovely*.



Safe Subjects

How can love heal
The mouth shut this way?
Say something worth breath.
Let it surface, recapitulate
How fat leeches press down
Gently on a sex goddess’ eyelids.
Let truth have its way with us
Like a fishhook holds
To life, holds dearly to nothing
Worthy saying – pull it out,
Bringing with it hard facts,
Knowledge that the fine underbone
Of hope is also attached
To inner self, underneath it all.
Undress. No don’t be afraid
Even to get Satan mixed up in this
Acknowledgement of thorns;
Meaning there’s madness
In the sperm, in the egg,
Fear breathing in its blood sac,
True accounts not so easily
Written off the sad book.

Say something about pomegranates.
Say something about real love.
Yes, true love – more than
Parted lips, than parted legs
In sorrow’s darkroom of potash
& blues. Let the brain stumble
from its hidingplace, from its cell block,
to the edge of oblivion
to come to itself, sharp-tongued
as a boar’s grin in summer moss
where a vision rides the back
of God, at this masquerade.
Redemptive as a straight razor
Against a jugular vein –
Unacknowledged & unforgiven.
It’s truth we’re after here,
Hurting for, out in the streets
Where my brothers kill each other,
Each other’s daughters & guardian angels
In the opera of dead on arrival.

Say something that resuscitates
Us, behind the masks,
As we stumble off into neon nights
To loveless beds & a second skin
Of loneliness. Something political as dust
& earthworms at work in the temple
of greed & mildew, where bowed lamps
cast down shadows like blueprints of graves.
Say something for us who can’t believe
In the creed of nightshade.
Yes, say something to us dreamers
Who decode the message of dirt
Between ancient floorboards
As black widow spiders
Lay translucent eggs
In the skull of a dead mole
Under a dogwood in full bloom.



**


Right now I have to admit that I'm in a really strange place with my writing. I'm both confident with it, and frustrated, simultaneously. This is a huge improvement over the last few weeks when I felt vaguely as though everything I've ever written should be incinerated and I should be exiled for having thought to put word to paper. (It was one of those weeks.) It's..I recognize that there are some things that I can do, and can do *well*, but increasingly, I feel like that's a very small number of things. However, at the same time, I'm cognizant of the fact that I'm hard on myself. But there's this frustration that's started to well up in my every time I write something, because I know what I *want* it to be, and I know that I *should* be able to produce that affect, yet I never feel as though I do, quite.

Okay, that's not fully accurate, nor exactly what I mean to articulate. I'm more meaning to say that I'm not the writer I want to be, which is something that I'm not sure is *bad*, per se, because it means I'm going to continue to strive toward improvement. I think the thing is that I don't think I've written anything recently that I'm *proud* of, you know? And that's where all this negativity is coming from. At the same time, I'm not trying to say, "Everything is crap, I can't believe I did that" yadda yadda yadda, because I think that what I've *been* writing while *not my best*, is certainly adequate. I just am not satisified with adequate.

And, increasingly, I've found it hard to keep my attention pinned down to one fic, or idea. Right now I'd say that I have three fics in progress that I'll probably finish: 1) Sleepers slash (which will probably only make me and Bex happy, but *grins* I'm totally okay with that) , 2) X-Men moviverse Kurt/Ororo and 3) more Chlana, which I *have* to finish because otherwise my Chloe will spork me to death as the girl's a mess of sexual tension right now. The thing is that all of these have been in progress for far longer than it usually takes me to write fics of their length. Now, this is probably because I've been insanely busy lately -- and that's fine. It's just another writing-related frustration.

But those are only the things that I'd say I'm likely to finish any time soon. There are so many more fics which I *legitmately* want to write. I want to write RomanClex so much it's ridiculous! ADS, as well! But I've been daunted, lately, by the sheer *size* of those stories. Even though I know where, when, what, how...they're so big they terrify me. And lately, y'all, I've *really* been wanting to write ADS. I want that story *finished*. I want it done, kaput, over with, no more, and for reasons other than the basic "Ohmygod story go *away*" but because I want to read it finished, too. *laughs* The fact that I think of myself as being *heinous* with plot is another issue with that story, because, you know, it...has one? So that makes me all twitchy, and I'm like, "This is stupid. When I work it all out everyone's going to be like, *smacks Nifra* What the hell?" Which is just that insecurity thing shrieking at me from the top of its lungs and, hey, by the way? Insecurity thing? Fuck you, man. Fuck you, right in the ear.

I think, also, part of what's kept me away from that story for so long is that my writing has changed so much since I started writing it -- and for the better, I think. So I go back to the begining of that story, and I simply *cringe*. Mainly because I almost want to just sit down, and start writing the whole thing *again*, so that it's all even, you know?

Hence the terror that story inspires.

*sighs* It's also entirely possible that I'm just being a total fucktard about this and that if I made myself sit down, and just pound out the last three chapters (which will probably be about sixtie pages of text *faints*), then it'd be fine. And that the reason all of this has been weirdly difficult lately is that I'm being contrary/flakey/lazy/what have you. All of those things have been know to happen in the past. *laughs* But I'm putting my foot down here, and saying, that it is my *firmest wish* that I will, in fact, finish that godforsaken story. So, you know, take from that -- and all this whining about it -- what you will.


**
I would just like to say: 24 hours until Lyra arrives. Woot!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

**

Oh, and we've got another birthday today!! (Has anyone else noticed how those tend to come in packs? Weird, huh?)

Happy birthday, scrunchy! I hope you have a really sorkinesque day with a creamy Meloni-like center! *smooches*
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