Day: 16

as mentioned before, the creative impulse is lacking--there is no poetical spark--even writing in full sentences is a labor--thought comes like boxcars, each separate--poetic prose, the flow of language seems lost--even reading poetry feels flat, forced--the beauty of language, of my perception and appreciation of language has changed--what remains is the memory of that beauty, of knowing the beauty is there whether I can see it or not--the feeling is like having lost one's tastebuds, eating, knowing the food has flavor but unable to taste--this is how reading poetry is--without taste--simply words--but not just words, my mind feels the construct, the hand behind the words, the artificiality of the form (more so in bad poetry than good)--but all of it seems manipulation--or I should say a lot of it seems contrived--and perhaps this is what separates the good from the bad--I watched an interview with Paul Auster and he made an interesting comment about his own writing, his own intent or goal, which was to be so clear that the words disappeared and the reader experienced the work as something other than language--how to make words do their work without being seen--in bad poetry or prose, the words are front and center--I suppose this is the magic of 'indirect style,' of third person masquerading as first person narrative

emotion still rises or tries to rise--there is still the sense of a bud that does not bloom--yet, the roots of that emotion seem entrenched, lying dormant, waiting for spring perhaps--I can't control what the meds do but I can work on my own thought processes or perhaps work on the awareness that I am something more than just my thoughts, that I can choose which thoughts to invest in and which to let go--to be the gardener of my own mind--learning again how to water and weed--in many ways I feel as a child, relearning lessons I remember learning more than a quarter century ago--in moments of clarity I wonder how and when I got so far off track

I am comforted that libido remains strong and after two weeks I am starting to accept that on Zoloft, I am one of those who is anorgasmic--my new word of the day--I know this is temporary but it is interesting to explore the idea of love, physical love, in this state

started reading Roberto Bolano's 2666--I'd like to quote one passage from last night:

"In the letter she asked his forgiveness for what she called her egotism, an egotism that expressed itself in the contemplation of her own misfortunes, real or imaginary."

Likewise, I too would like to ask for forgiveness