talktooloose: (Default)
What I want to know is if writing makes me feel so good (not only as I do it but after I've done it), why do I neurotically avoid getting down to it until I'm a complete emotional mess?

Ack! It's so hard not having Snake here. I offload a lot of ordering of my life onto him. He says, "Hey, let's go to sleep now," and off we go. Otherwise I stay up until the wee and suffer the next.

I saw a doc on Tony Kushner yesterday (excellent, inspiring) and today rewatched parts of Angels in America. The density of thought and feeling in that piece is exactly the kind of writing I want to do, although in a different medium. I also became terribly worried that I'm like Louis; ultimately selfish and more in love with ideas than people.

Do we all wonder if we really know how to love? I like to say love is in the action, not the feeling, but I doubt this little gem of homespun wisdom sometimes. I doubt my capacity. I'm just a kid with a bag of candies on the playground.

Morbid thoughts. Time to go to sleep.

Tomorrow: water the garden, do more writing, try and find a bike for [livejournal.com profile] painglass (I may have one), go see a movie, go to a slutty party. Sounds like a plan.

June 2012

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