clonkblog started in the journal / stream of consciousness about writing
Thinking too much about too many things but I know the moment I start writing I’ll remember nothing. I’m thinking about smells, about the homework I have to do, and the idea of maybe actually owning “the things I have to do.” Thinking about going home and about getting up. Even though I already know the answer, thinking about “what’s next.” The oil on my face, the thought of doing something about anything, my brother. I think about the things I think up while writing that immediately fall away, this time of day I ought to be leaving, and how I can’t remember what I was saying, just something jumping up to replace it. I frustrate, so I calm down. locking in(!) looking around. The crystalline vase in front of me and my hair in my mo—
My teacher’s fist is shaking up and down, not angry, just a fidgeting. Physical interruptions are different, they’re easier to forgive. My fist is shaking at my head in my skull banging against the top and bottom of inside bone like up, down, “clank, clank,” up, down, “clank.” In the front lobe I’m not thinking about how terrible I am. It’s farther down in the arterial zones where those fingers lay. Resting, impatient, clawing, maybe cruel. Not in the way you might expect, like one of those things that feels soft until a nerve lights up inside of the one holding it and it burns you. If the claw wasn’t soft and nestled inside my head it might be much easier to reject.
Frog in boiling water, my objectivity feels so subtle until it gets yanked out suddenly.
What was I thinking about? Incompleteness. Working memory has a capacity, let’s not wish it to be any greater for I’m thinking, feeling? thinking doubtfully about any more wishing. What is the thing that the voice said? What voice? It’s only inside right now, we’re indoors, in my clanking head. It said “remember your friends.” It said other things, too, I can’t remember.
Truth is that my memory’s fine, my limbs good, my doubts great. I know that doubt isn’t only the claw, it’s something also curious, kind . . .
A moment, because now I got hung up on the connection I was making there. After a re-read, I kind of recall it. Doubt probes for great things; the claw and its fingers are just tenderly harsh and harsh tenderly. Self-deprecating.
The claw, the voice, my voice, doubt, the head. That thread. It’s blurry and feels non-productive to follow. Who said that? Non-productive? The homework I should really do . . . I’m thinking of ten million catalysts bursting into action in my head with things I can do. It’s exciting to me. Something, the claw maybe, or the fingers’ cousin: hesitance, dulls that excitement. Theres a theory, I heard it online:
“You get TWO SPOONFULLS OF DIRECT ACTION in the evening for every eight exciting catalysts of inspiration during the day.”
It’s called spoonful theory.
Better learn how to budget that, and do it quickly, the limbs doing the telling and yelling rather than the head.
The hour that stretches on while waiting for the bus (because, because, your phone died, because,) is less stressing than the hour[s!] when you’re at home and everything is right there. Is it a pressure thing, about the weights tied to each space? I don’t know, comment below. The weights right here weigh pretty much just waiting. Everyone here because of the same different reasons, it’s mutual companionship. Everyone indoors while we all stand here out-of-doors. It could be the hivemind-like waiting that’s missing from home. The mutuality that makes me feel less nervous. Dig into that. I could ask my dad where he’s going and how far away that is, but maybe that’s unproductive. At a certain point, after thinking about thinking and writing and reading my writing about it, things don’t get much clearer. Concepts can unfold after a little prying but my objective is still blurry, and connecting all of the dots feels hard. I know I’m perceptive, good with my doubt and good still as I hold hate, but it’s difficult to feel the “worthiness” of digging into it. It’s a nice reward when fog recedes and I’m comfortable enough to just sit still. And still, it’s a different kind of reward to get to just sit (still) and look into that fog.