Writing is so unpleasant. I have too many unfinished drafts and I can’t make any progress on them at all. I can’t complete anything; it’s infuriating. I have that old bad feeling that comes at me from time to time:
- That the preceding period of my life was an embarrassing public spectacle: all of my friends and family, and many complete strangers, watched with either knowing bemusement or bored disgust as a had some kind of childish fit which they recognized clinically, or with the detachment of harried parents. Whatever successes I had were within a scale I now see as artificially reduced: as though if there were accomplishments, they were only so for a toddler; as though I can only hang my hat on “learning the alphabet” and “tying my shoes.” And this is so!
- Now, I have been thinking without writing for so long that I don’t know where to begin; I feel like every little essay must begin with “WHAT CAN BE KNOWN” and then segue into “WHAT IS COMPLETELY WRONG ABOUT THE PRESENT AND HOW PEOPLE THINK” before getting to its point, which was what again? Oh, I don’t care about this point, I don’t remember why I was writing about this.
- I can’t distinguish between foolishness and quality in my ideas and writing any longer. I hate everything I’ve ever written; I see the performative personality in it, I see the falseness in it, I loathe it. It is embarrassing to me, what I’ve written.
- I am totally death-obsessed, can’t tolerate writing or art that doesn’t take death seriously (which is so much of it!). I am also cross with history: it is revolting to see the animation of silly memes and superficial ideas on the stage of culture. The most energetic areas of our culture will be utterly absurd to reviewers within decades; everyone is futzing around in error, bounding their art and writing in obedience to the worst of academia, to the legacy of the perverted humanities, to childish and ignorant moralism.
I just have to wait, and it makes me crazy.