Looking for a Grip

I'm writing through a little writer's blockade right now. I'll probably sit here and look at this page, too.

Lately I've felt myself losing a handle on what it is I need to be getting done. Of course my paper is on my mind all the time. I woke up this morning considering the image of Hedwig as a wall and wondering how I would articulate the significance of that fact in words.

My poor attempts leave me thinking it's all too fluffy, if you will. The sentences are barely connected by linear thoughts with only periods separating one weak one from the next. Substance is what I seem to be lacking this morning as I try to complete the first section of chapter one. I'm on page seven. Page two for today.

I have the proseminar tomorrow night, which is usually a good source of inspiration. There are 10 others most likely experiencing similar feelings of uncertainty from one day to the next. One of the papers we're discussing tomorrow is on the Romas' (more popularly, negatively, known as gypsies) lack of representation in rememberances of the Holocaust. I'm learning something from it and it's really interesting.

I want to actually teach some folks some things, too, but I'm not sure that's my purpose. Maybe I just want to affect some people. Part of me thinks this topic is so hardwired into me that everyone else feels it, too, and they are, therefore, yawning as they read what I give them.So I return to my words and try to inject them with effective sentiment in an attempt to evoke feeling in people. While at the same time losing focus. Not a good time for that. Overall, writing is haunting me again.

The difference is now that I accept myself as a writer finally. So it does feel a little different. As though I have some control over the course of action I take in overcoming this latest hurdle. I'm letting the thoughts I have get away from me without writing them down in that handy little blue book I keep tucked neatly in my back-left pocket.

I'll talk about it enough, about writing. But I'm not doing it. It's as though I'm afraid, again, of not getting each word right. And then I start to feel pent up. It's frightening. I know I'm feeling. Because I feel it. And it's not necessarily a fun thing for me right now. But that's this life. And it is interesting to me that at the times I feel the most, I retreat the most, probably wanting to hide from it. It doesn't make sense. Maybe if I'd open my little blue book.  And I'm having sexuality issues. Oh, I'm a big 'ol dyke. No question there. However, in the recent past, I have been asked if I was sure. I don't understand that. Also, a friend of mine has said things that seem to delegitimize any feelings I have for someone. Like because I'm a female who likes other females, it's just not the same. Jesus Christ. What the fuck year is this? You've got to be kidding me.

I must always remember the source, of course, but it's still hard to handle as time goes by and I allow myself to revisit such conversations. First I get angry and then I usually succumb to the illegitimacy that these topics tend to foster in me. Perhaps I invite them by my own actions and/or choices. But what am I to do? Stop feeling, I suppose. Sublimate. I'm trying.

Another aspect of my sexuality issues is this notion I have been fed of being an exotic other, an idea I first learned about by reading British sociologist Stuart Hall. I identify with that, as I hear over and over again that I'm intriguing, personable, different. People want to get to know me, because they're attracted to something in me. I asked Elizabeth what it is I do. "I knew you were going to say that," she replied. But I really don't know.

I figure it's for the same reasons I'm drawn to others. But it somehow seems heightened in my case. I make people feel safe, cared for. I'm waiting for a little bit of that myself. Not waiting, actually. I can see it just as much as I can create the scenario in, say, a five-page story with characters and everything. But that's where it stops, because I have time and again been led on and failed by people who are unable to meet the standards that I'm not sure I've even set.

I don't even know what any of that means, which is another reason why I'm not looking for anything. But I can't help but feel this nagging desire to look. But I'm being found and I am discovering that I lack the strength to keep it at bay. So the strength is what I'm looking for as I near the end of my reason for being in New York. I'm not sure what's around the corner. I would love nothing more than to escape from here and start over again somewhere else. But I want to feel. And I want to express. I'm afraid to, though, because to express is to put yourself out there. And out there is lonely. So paper is my only outlet. And I haven't even been using that lately. Oh would I in Sacramento so I could see Dave diddle his fiddle for St. Patrick's Day.

In school news, I have some smart-as-hell friends of whom I am very proud. I think I mentioned Erica being accepted to two schools -- the University of Chicago and NYU. I found out today that Katharina was accepted into UC Irvine's Anthropology program and has been awarded a substantial financial package. If she goes there, I'll be able to visit when I go to L.A., the first time of which will happen in a few weeks, because they're paying her way out there to check out the school the same time I'll be there. And with this inchoherence, I must depart. Try to write somewhere else.