I am sitting here in the university library... I was all set to write out a good page on my own personal writing process and how it was birthed one day in the mountain jacks shitter when I stumbled upon my friend Julie's blog page. She wrote:
"I crossed into the New Year, here, in my apartment. I know it's supposed to be festive, but I was too drunk and couldn't stop thinking of the tragedy inherent in the passage of time, and of home and how I wanted to be there. I usually manage the passage of time as well as anyone, but somehow, I find the New Year to be heartbreaking every time. Maybe my life is too good, because instead of celebrating survival, all I feel is past and future loss of people, places, and memory."
the tragedy inherent in the passage of time really took me. She is the best writer I know, especially when she is sad, worn out, and not so freaking skitzo like most of her other post. We, Julie and I, had a great conversation in a bar a year or two ago about the saddness that drives all good writing...
Now I am sad thinking about how I live my life in the past, how my most cherished memories are my only posession and how they are all I seem to think about. I think about yesterday far more than today as I recall, relive, and redicate every moment over and over in my head instead of dreaming about tommorrow... its as if I am already dead, dreaming of the past and dreading eternity devoid of new memories.
jdon