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in which sabrina gets all meta and stuff
Mar. 10th, 2009 02:14 pmI've been noticing that a lot of people who have been long-time readers of my journal have been unfriending me, so i decided to look at my journal as if seeing it for the first time... and dang, i haven't written about anything interesting in months.
Part of the problem is that i hate repeating myself, and i have blah blah blahed at grrrrrreat length on religion and politics. Anything i write these days which is halfway profound consists to an alarming degree of links to previous posts. I've already made that point, why repeat it? And more and more, silence just feels like the wisest commentary i have to offer on things. Half the time i feel like all that's left to do now is cheer as the great religious and hegemonic institutions of the past and present crumble one by one, and mumble with an air of cranky self-righteous vindication. And what's the fun in reading that?
My journal hasn't been fun or innovative or creative in probably half a year. The fun, innovative, creative part of my brain has been in restful hibernation while it ruminates the next stage of my visionary evolution. It's not a rut i'm in, i swear.
Actually that kind of expression has been a cyclical thing in my life. I have periods of creativeness followed by a season of fallow, towards the end of which i flip through the pages of crackpot notes i kept during the last outburst, marvel that such thoughts were ever uttered by moi; and then slowly, the creaky old joints get moving again. Like the Tinman, with his can of oil just an arm's length away, but his arm's immobile.
I haven't written any fiction since November. I haven't made any music in years. Time to kick myself in the ass a little.
Part of the problem is that i hate repeating myself, and i have blah blah blahed at grrrrrreat length on religion and politics. Anything i write these days which is halfway profound consists to an alarming degree of links to previous posts. I've already made that point, why repeat it? And more and more, silence just feels like the wisest commentary i have to offer on things. Half the time i feel like all that's left to do now is cheer as the great religious and hegemonic institutions of the past and present crumble one by one, and mumble with an air of cranky self-righteous vindication. And what's the fun in reading that?
My journal hasn't been fun or innovative or creative in probably half a year. The fun, innovative, creative part of my brain has been in restful hibernation while it ruminates the next stage of my visionary evolution. It's not a rut i'm in, i swear.
Actually that kind of expression has been a cyclical thing in my life. I have periods of creativeness followed by a season of fallow, towards the end of which i flip through the pages of crackpot notes i kept during the last outburst, marvel that such thoughts were ever uttered by moi; and then slowly, the creaky old joints get moving again. Like the Tinman, with his can of oil just an arm's length away, but his arm's immobile.
I haven't written any fiction since November. I haven't made any music in years. Time to kick myself in the ass a little.
