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Yesterday I fell in love with Andy Goldsworthy. Watching the movie Rivers & Tides was this strange experience of feeling like I'd already seen it and knew what was coming but I still felt transfixed. Kind of like when I watched Spellbound or some other documentaries. I think the feeling of familiarity just comes from tapping into something that's previously been unacknowledged or at least underappreciated. And I like art that makes me gasp, that moment of discovery when it clicks in your brain or gut and you go "oh!" because it's so lovely or brilliant or both.
I also bought tickets yesterday for Mary Zimmerman's new play opening in April, based on the Baricco's novel Silk because this little sliver of a novel was so gorgeous and sexy and unexpected and MZ is a genius so I hope it's one of those "two great tastes that taste great together" artistic collaborations, and not one that should be amazing in theory but ends up falling short. I suppose that's one advantage of buying tickets two months in advance is I'll have time for my expectations to drop.
I'm tired of talking about my writing struggles. I'm ready to finish processing internally and I can feel the tides starting to shift (or at least I fcking hope so) and it's only going to happen on my own, by myself, without anyone. And I'm happy that tonight I go on an overnight meditation retreat where I'll have that silence and solitude. But today I've printed out a monthly calender and every day I will write down how many pages I've written and I went back and added zeros for everyday this week. Well, not everyday, but most days. I want to bring back that version of me who wrote nearly 2000 words a day for an entire month. Remember him? I don't. But that was me, so I can do it again.
I have not filled in a number of pages (i.e. zero) for today, because I've started writing. Not my paper, but a scene. And my character is about to take a bath. And it makes me want to take a bath. So I will.
I also bought tickets yesterday for Mary Zimmerman's new play opening in April, based on the Baricco's novel Silk because this little sliver of a novel was so gorgeous and sexy and unexpected and MZ is a genius so I hope it's one of those "two great tastes that taste great together" artistic collaborations, and not one that should be amazing in theory but ends up falling short. I suppose that's one advantage of buying tickets two months in advance is I'll have time for my expectations to drop.
I'm tired of talking about my writing struggles. I'm ready to finish processing internally and I can feel the tides starting to shift (or at least I fcking hope so) and it's only going to happen on my own, by myself, without anyone. And I'm happy that tonight I go on an overnight meditation retreat where I'll have that silence and solitude. But today I've printed out a monthly calender and every day I will write down how many pages I've written and I went back and added zeros for everyday this week. Well, not everyday, but most days. I want to bring back that version of me who wrote nearly 2000 words a day for an entire month. Remember him? I don't. But that was me, so I can do it again.
I have not filled in a number of pages (i.e. zero) for today, because I've started writing. Not my paper, but a scene. And my character is about to take a bath. And it makes me want to take a bath. So I will.
