Okay, let me tell you what just happened: I opened up this blog, meaning to write at least a "lil sumtin nah", but--wait for it--courage left me hanging like that julie mango that is just a little too high and a little too much on the other side of your neighbour's bare-brick, 7-foot high wall; just out-of-reach.
Now, let me tell you what I did: I went all Caribbean-Thinker-ish; reading Nicholas Laughlin; Marlon James; reviews of Calabash; Annie Paul etc. And now I am inspired; I am typing away. Well, not "typing away" as in being-so-inspired-to-be-at-once-suddenly-euphoric-and-energised-and-to-set-at-the-keyboard-to-clatter-away;no, not in that way at all. Just as in opening the window, hesitating, then just wishing and hoping that words will flow. And if they did, remembering to type in standard english. All quite the exercise to decrease word rate, low word rate decreases thought rate by a process that I am simply to tired to even glance at right now. And anyway, most people should be able to relate, right?
Now, let me paint you a more panoramic picture: in the last few days, what has happened? I've been traumatised by a stalker at the National Public Library (he followed me up Penbroke Street to dad's office too, he even knocked on the door after sprinted inside. Dad went out and dealt with him; school finished on Friday,came first in bio; my parents forced me to go with them to a Catholic conference, I protested, which resulted in me being able to tell people about my lack of belief; a girl has done what girls do, flip the world upside down, though not so disastrous in my case; and I've spent the last three days holed up in the house, watching House and, sporadically, have been trying to wrap my head around some of the writings of David Foster Wallace; I also, I think, have been dipping in and out of depression.
Well, that's quite a full life, is it not? Or, I could alter, not my thinking, but my way of thinking, I could tell myself that this is life for everybody else, I am not special and should really stop complaining, even think about complaining, for This is water!! (David Foster Wallace http://www.marginalia.org/dfw_kenyon_commencement.html)
Now for the detail (have you noticed that even though my thought process within the paragraph is quite random, I seem to list them, to have a pre-determined order? There is order to my mess!): The stalker. I was traumatised; no story.
>School, well, is a disappointment, and I've got an I.A. to do during this Christmas!
>Yes, I can finally tell people that do no agree with, participate in, believe; I do NOT CARE about God, or Gods, or god. Done. BLAH!!!!!
>Yes, the girl. Well... I'll stop here, where its safest.
>Being holed up in a house, supposedly depressed, is not healthy. I am hungry, I don't eat; I see people online, I don't talk; I read news blandly, inactively,eyes just running from side to side lazily, skipping words, sentences, whole paragraphs, whole pages!; the sun is shining, the air is sweet, I don't go outside; I reflect on my arrogance and supposedly rock-solid view of the world, the rock cracks; I try to read Crime and Punishment, it doesn't hold me; I clean (thats weird enough, there's not need to extrapolate); music is dull, the skip button is over-used; food is grey. Eugh.
Two thoughts: is this water?; and, it can't possibly be the girl, can it?
There were a few things unchanged: House is the second-best bomb; West Wing IS the bomb; So is David Foster Wallace; mum is grumpy and dad is tired.