Pajama Day

I’ve decided today is a pajama day – not unlike the last 4 days spent in the same shirt, woolly pants and slippers. There’s a laundry basket full of clothes that need to be dealt with, but for some reason I would prefer to wash my panties in the shower with me than to start up an entire ordeal of laundry loads.

I’ve finally finished (or at least approached the finishing line) this heap of literature research I’ve been doing for a blind master’s student and now… now I allow myself to binge watch terrible high school sitcoms that seem to have grown on me (though I can’t tell whether that is because the writing gets better as the seasons move along, or whether I have acclimatised myself to shit).

I also just took this personality test online offered by some PhD in psychology who is supposedly the pioneer of research in the “Highly Sensitive Person” field of literature. And…. yup, I’m highly sensitive.

So that pretty much means that I feel things a lot more deeply, quickly and complex than others, which often leads me to indecisiveness and feeling overwhelmed by chaotic, loud or intense external stimuli (like large groups, loud music, having to do too many things all at once etc..).

This, in conjunction with my neurological disorder of misophonia (look it up, it’s real) pretty much means that I’m a ball of nerves and negative reactions waiting to happen.

One good thing about all of this is that I can put a name to it.  Here I was thinking I’d just been a sensitive, irrational and over-reacting bitch this whole time. Nope, I’ve got a good dose of “highly sensitive personality traits” and a side-helping of misophonia. It’s psychology – I aint dicken around.

Time to “Beat” it out of me.

It has been more than a year since my last post. I’m embarrassed – it makes it look like I haven’t been writing. Not that it’s a public concern at all, but I have. There was a time, maybe a couple of months, when the thought of putting pen to paper scared the living hell out of me. I felt so clogged up, had so many things to say (even if there was no one else listening except my subconscious) and yet the moment I sat down to say it, I drew a blank.

I didn’t seem to have the right words and never enough time (there was always the promise of “later”, though we all know how often that bargain comes to fruition). Then I thought it was because I had taken a break from studying, and the discipline that had kept my reading and writing for a couple of hours every day was very noticeably missing from my life. 

I could make any number of excuses, but at the end of that dry spell, when I finally wrote something, the cause  became very clear. I felt clogged, yes, I had things I needed to say, yes, but what those things were, I had no idea. I was going through  a period of upheaval where nothing seemed to be able to anchor me, and I realise now that all I needed to do at that time was to let myself be thrown about by life so that I would be able to write about it later. I don’t know how other people function, but I’ve learned (in many, many similar periods of intro-and-retro-spection) that I don’t know what the hell I’m thinking until it’s all over, and then I can finally sit down and write about it with some semblance of insight.

So, yes, for the past year, I have been writing. I’ve been writing short poems and jotting down any thoughts that pop into my head in a journal I keep by my bedside. But over the last couple of days I’ve felt the most incredible drive rising up inside of me, and I can only attribute that to one Mr. Allen Ginsberg.

I recently watched a movie called “Kill Your Darlings”; a semi-biographic depiction of the lives of the members of “The New Vision”; Lucien Carr, Allen Ginsberg, Jack Karouack, Wiliam Burroughs and David Kammerer, all key members of the Beat generation of new poets rising up in the 40’s.
The movie inspired me to read more of Ginsberg’s poetry and all I can say is that I have had my mind BLOWN (not unlike that which happened between Ginsberg and Neal Cassady).

I’ve been writing again, like crazy. 3am in the morning, fueled by cigarettes and whiskey and pounding away at my keyboard – this is my happy place.

And I’m very happy to say, I’m back, bitches.