I have been a little disgusted with myself lately. That's ok because I think a little self loathing now and then is healthy. It forces you to take stock of who you are, and think about whether who you are is really who you want to be. I think people are too quick to skim over thier melancholia, trying desperately to find a happy place, when what they really should be doing is taking note of their own personal blues. We learn beautiful things about ourselves when we are not on the top of the world, when we are, rather, in the musky crevices of the world making friends with the spiders.
I do this, skim over my melancholia. Somedays I wake up in a Funk and before I even get out of bed, or put on my glasses I can tell that it will be one of those days. I get a particular hollow ache in my belly, a feeling that I have never been able to put words to. And when I wake up feeling this way, I usually close my eyes and ask God to take away that feeling, and to change my attitude because I don't want to feel that way. It's not fun. More often than not, if I wake up in a Funk I stay in a Funk all day, no matter how hard I pray about it. Perhaps that's because God isn't listening to me. Perhaps that's because there's something I need to learn about the Funk.
Over Christmas break when Rusty and I were in Roswell I was talking to my mom about blogging. She mentioned that she had read in a psychology journal that so much of blogging is about narcissism, that people write things that used to be written in diaries and journals, but are now written for the intent of other people reading it. I told her that my philosophy professor said the same thing, that everyone in the world has a blog and everyone in the world thinks everyone else in the world cares about what I ate for lunch. So I've been thinking since Christmas break, trying to come up with a defense for my blog. Surely I don't write because I think everyone else in the world cares about what I ate for lunch. Or do I? I would like to say that I have a blog and I write because I am a writer and I cannot be a writer if I do not write. Then, when I think about the things I write, I have to acknowledge what a lie that is. 90% of what I write is junk, word vomit, if you will, that I belch onto the screen and publish without a second thought. In fact, this very post will be word vomit, belched onto the screen. How ironic.
I am disgusted with myself because I remember when I used to write, really write, and while what I wrote was not always good (it was often very very bad) at least I thought about it. I took risks, I pondered, I fretted, I stressed over which word more correctly fit, whether I should take out sections or leave them in, whether I had made my point. I am disgusted with myself because I cannot think of the last piece of writing I was actually proud of. I am disgusted with myself because I know I can do better.
So maybe for Lent, in addition to giving up TV from 8-5 (oh that terrible terrible TV habit) I should give up belching as well.