Of tightropes, blockage, and the satisfaction I alone seem to find in the grey area.

Write anything, write something, just write.

Anne Lamott has explained many things to me in my life. She has also comforted me when K-fcked radio is blasting at full volume. She has also been on team "Grey Area" when I decide that it's okay that life doesn't always make sense and perhaps that it why life is worth living. But right now, struggling to make what I understand about "The Remains of the Day" (an utterly breathtaking novel) come out clearly in a 15 page paper which has only my infantile understanding of the 20th century's hilarious, oddly accurate Lacan's psychoanalysis as it's weapon... well, "Things fall apart" is just the beginning...

I understand the concept of writers block... it is not an outside force, it is an internal one. The pieces are all there, I am quite capable, and I have the time... but something is stopping me. And that something is me! Perhaps that is why Lamott says just write, piece by piece (bird by bird) and you will chip away at the barrier, the great wall, until you find yourself on the other side. Usually, this works for me. The other side of the wall rarely holds what I thought it would, but I can usually be proud of what I find there. Right now, I feel like everything I do is actually creating another layer of bricks on the wall rather than chipping away at it...

Things are not happy- I feel a lot of anger and frustration toward me from many people in my life and indeed from me to me... but that's not actually abnormal. Usually, if things are going well in college then my home life hates me, and visa versa. It is a tightrope act I've been walking since I was sixteen. But for some reason now I don't feel like walking. I feel like swinging from my knees and telling both ends to cut themselves loose. Expectations cutting me loose may lead to my death, but at least I could go down laughing, upside down and alone instead of rightside up and crowded.

Yes, the wall is still there but there's not just one wall. Writers block has now been built into a house!

Write, just write. Lacan and I have a date with Kazuo Ishiguro. I'm going down swinging.