Oh, yes, I'd love to apply to be a lecturer in Drama. Oh, that's not the kind of Drama you mean? Oh, I see.
Things I've been craving lately:
Something like a JOB. This is what I'm imagining it to look like: colleagues, coffee, blazers, my assertive voice one octave lower than my normal speaking voice (my reading voice is two octaves lower, I don't know why), a cubicle in a loft space, NPR during rush-hour.
Something like a MENTOR. Maybe this is also a wish for a MOTHER. I have had a compulsion lately to begin composing letters to: Elfriede Jelinek, Gail Scott, Helene Cixous, Agnes Varda, Su Friedrich, Chris Kraus, Dennis Cooper, Karen Finley. The ghost of: Jean Rhys, Kathy Acker, Jane Bowles, although I'm imagining Bowles and Rhys' advice would be toxic + fucked, but anyway. Just letters. I want to know if I am doing something okay. I need to know if I am pursuing what I should be pursuing, and not pursuing what I should not be pursuing. Yes, I know I have interacted with at last a handful of the writers on this list already, but I want to carve out all the fleshly icky gooshy feelings that I'm feeling about being a writer, about writing, about my projects, about being alone in this space of a life and a body and a house and a state, about thinking of doing more visual stuff, and I want to surrender myself to them, and say - Mold me. Please. Tell me. Soothe me. Ooze me. Allay me. That sort of thing. Does everyone feel that? I crave the nurturing maternal, perhaps because I've never experienced it. My mother was - awe-some, in so many ways, a force, a gale, like her name, but nurturing she was not.
This book is becoming more real and real everyday, I just spent 12 hours yesterday proofing the mss., wrestling over italicizing foreign words, etc. I read through it to proof it, of course. I found myself enjoying a lot of it. I felt something like a faint spasm of pride. It felt very temporary. I feel in some ways I am trying something new for the essay, at least personally - in some ways I wish I had a year more to make it perfect, but not knowing whether I am ever a writer that will make things perfect, that I am more drawn to the unmastered, the illegitimate. I am looking forward to those I admire and respect reading it, to sharing this space I've occupied a shadow citizen for the past few years. But, I am struck again with the sense that as soon as I finish a project I disavow it. I feel it's not good enough. That I need to do better. That's why I think I've always felt ambivalent about the publishing process. By the time it comes out, I already have that craving for something else, for new territory, I already tell myself that I need to do better, burn harder, I don't know, work myself into a coma like Pierre Guyotat because I'm so obsessed with writing, as opposed to how I really write, which is flipping through things and taking notes and putting the notes on hot-pink Post-Its and taking breaks to watch Gossip Girl.
Something like a LIFE DEVOTED TO JUST READING. In the pat couple days I have read: the aforementioned Pierre Guyotat's Coma, Caroline Picard's wonderful, psychotic Psycho Dream Factory, both of which I would like to write about at some late date. On my desk now: Voluptuous Panic, that book about Weimar Berlin, books on feral children, Eduard Leve's Suicide, Genet's Our Lady of the Flowers, Ian Hacking on MPD, Catherine Breillat's Pornocracy. I'm trying, slowly, to ease myself into writing fiction again.