Love is a pain in the ass
Love is a pain in the ass
I’m in my bed and its half past midnight. I’m jotting this down, but I don’t really know what I feel. I’m also getting superstitious and shit. I got some Guatemalan worry-dolls today. This is what the paper says: There is a legend amongst the highland Indian village of Guetamala, if you have a problem, then share it with a Worry-doll before going to bed. Tell one worry to each doll then place them beneath your pillow. While you sleep the dolls will take your worries away. Made in Guatemala. I’d love to make up some cool story of how I got this little colourful bag with six dolls from a local market high up in some remote village, far away from tourists, while I was on a photo assignment for National Geographic. Or maybe an old Mayan tribe woman named Nagamao gave them to me as a gift from her folks. But the truth is that it doesn’t get much more exciting than a cold shopping afternoon in Holland, MI looking for Christmas gifts. We found this store with handmade imports from South America and Africa, a bit different from all the glittery ornaments and Duck Dynasty tumblers. Besides the dolls, I also found a tiny blue elephant and a unicorn made out of steel wire and rainbow textiles with a string so you can hang it somewhere and show it to the world. Look at my unicorn.
My credit card also decided to stop working today and I have to call the bank tomorrow and find out why. In fact, my life stopped working. Should I call someone? I don’t know. I probably find an answer within myself. That’s what I do: I walk around and think about life and I find questions and then answers to these questions. But, then there will always be a new question coming up when the old one is answered. Sometimes I might as well come up with multiple answers. Fuck. I started worrying again. I can’t admit that I can be the worrying type sometimes. I hate people who worry. They ruin all the spontaneous fun around themselves and then they want too much control in all situations.
When I worry I always start hungering for the road. Being on the go makes things easier in life. No need to settle down and establish deep down relationships where you expose yourself to someone who can hurt your feelings. No need to regret mistakes and feel shame when nobody knows you. More poise for the night, when you know you’ll be gone the next day. You can choose whatever; all decisions are in your hand. I see it as a better form of a cheap escape that rewards you with adventure and new impressions.
I could probably go on forever and rant about my overanalysed life, but it’s most likely I’ve forgotten this by tomorrow. That’s how I work. Shit is emotional and then the next second it’s gone with the wind. Quoting Ferdinand von Schrubentauff (I have no idea who this guy is): I’m almost never serious, and I’m always too serious. Too deep, too shallow. Too sensitive, too cold hearted. I’m like a collection of paradoxes.
In order to do what you do, you need to walk. Walking is what brings the words to you, what allows you to hear the rhythms of the words as you write them in your head. One foot forward, and then the other foot forward, the double drumbeat of your heart. Two eyes, two ears, two arms, two legs, two feet. This, and then that. That, and then this. Writing begins in the body, it is the music of the body, and even if the words have meaning, can sometimes have meaning, the music of the words is where the meanings begin. You sit at your desk in order to write down the words, but in your head you are still walking, always walking, and what you hear is the rhythm of your heart, the beating of your heart. Mandelstam: “I wonder how many pairs of sandals Dante wore out while working on the Commedia.” Writing as a lesser form of dance.
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