i'm writing when i should be working. but if i were working, i'd want to be writing. today reminded me of how behind i am on everything. i'll get to it all... tomorrow. right now i want a beer, a back rub, and a roll in the hay. i can't afford two of the three, so i'll settle for a beer.
in an interview, paul westerberg said he hated playing "unsatisfied." he called it a "seeming angst-ridden cry for help"...did he mean to be profound? angst is always seeming, you know.
i have been unsatisfied for decades. it's my way. it's what i tell myself about myself to avoid becoming...still. if nothing is ever enough, i'll keep moving. and i'll never sink. this is what i tell myself. what i don't tell myself is that i may also never swim. but i know.
i know, because i took a graduate course in literary theory. it was 2003. my teacher's name was dennis. dennis with a smile like the cheshire cat. he was wonderful. we read psychoanalytic theory, feminist theory, philosophy...in some esoteric way, all these things apparently apply to literature. i never quite grasped that part. it didn't matter. the best part of the class was the thinking. it made me think until my mind was inside out. some of it absurd, some of it completely tangible. it was the most important class i ever took. if i had to reduce everything i learned to one thought, it is this: everything is a lie.
i remember this every time i wish i had kept my mouth shut. not because i've said something awful, but because i know talk is futile. cheap, as they say. feelings are the basis for talk. we feel something, we create a concept in our mind. but by the time a concept becomes a group of words that become a sentence, it's all ruined. once my words leave me they fall apart, for someone else to put back together. feelings are the only truth. as soon as they morph into words they become lies.
paul westerberg says everything is a lie, too. or did he say liberty is a lie. in another interview, he said it doesn't matter.