Thursday, March 3, 2011

flailing arms and spastic hands

I'm going to have to argue that artists block is worse that writers block. Maybe its simply that I've gotten embarrassingly USED to writer's block over the last couple years, but wanting to scribble furiously over every single line I put down on a piece of newsprint is absolute torture. Especially when I have an assignment due in two days that I have yet to start, which also happens to be my routine as of lately.

I've got nothing but flailing arms and spastic hands tonight, sitting on the floor of this tiny room surrounded by the accumulation of years of crap, wanting to pound my fists on the floor, which isn't something you can do living in an on campus apartment where the walls are so thin that an overflowing toilet upstairs rains piss water through your smoke detector. Nostalgia isn't worth anything (to me, in this singular moment in time). I feel the ineffable need to throw everything away. Or clean. The second might be more productive.

Or maybe not. Maybe if I get rid of everything that reminds me of who I was and what I wanted before then I can use my muscles to want something different.

Now that I've wasted a good half hour of the lost minutes before sleep, I'm going to clean up my room so i can actually have enough room to lay down on the floor without trampling empty water bottles and being stabbed by just sharpened pencils.

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