I wanted to write about the Interesting Woman in waiting, but it did not work. It is a shame. I collected my links, read through them, checked dates ‘n stuff, an outline of the text has already formed in my head – it is the way it works.
Years ago when I had to write more or less regularly in a small kind of gazette on topics related to a certain company that happened to be my contract partner, it only worked when I had the stuff sorted & the plan in my head. And when the deadline was very very near. When I reached the “oh-damn-that-sh**-and-write-it-down-now-zone”.
Also, when I was teaching ages ago, I prepared the topic – like a student – only the day before, read what had to be read and wrote notes ; sometimes it formed itself just when I was already on the train and had to face the audience two hours later. Sadly the efforts of the students were only seldom up to the point that was to be shown, they often missed and I amended their papers, but of course that was why I sat on this side of the table.
Or it was my fault at all, because I did not prepare them well enough, possibly.
I seriously do not know. I may have expected too much, too much oversight, too much understanding of the broader picture I tried to facilitate to them.
Today I feel angry. Angry at meself. It is like I would bonk against a soft wall, like a box of wet cardboard I can not hit through.
I get lost in links, I follow distractions – damn Wikipedia – I find meself doing a puzzle.
This is exactly why my doctoral thesis never took off – I never finished the collecting phase : I wormed myself into the secondary literature, followed links to far out texts that would be hard to reach, even today, despite the scanning orgies of google, despite the efforts of libraries around the world to bring stuff online, there is a lot still on the fringe, exactly there where it becomes murky, where things start to fall apart, where biographies become “interesting”, barely bearable sometimes, where people/authors simply vanish, where the fog starts … there is always fringe.
And in moods like these, I look around this book repository I call my flat, and for the tenthousands time I swear that I’ll sell the crap off, knowing perfectly well that nobody will buy this rotting ammassement of paper. I hate it. I hate it, and can’t without. I hate the dust, I feel stuck – I am stuck.
Writing applications is a kind of sport nowadays ; I am over fifty, have a coloured working biography with some blanks, and accept no shit no more, it may shine through sometimes.
This sounds ridiculous from a bus driver. And this is exactly what I am, an employed bus driver who transports handicapped children twice a day for statutory minimum wage in the lowest possible income group ; “no skills required” as the job description says.
And it’s all right, I do not complain. In fact I like the company of “my” “handicapped” boys more than … some other’s. They do not lie.
I just feel the need to change what I still can change. When the cardboard’s dry again.
Please accept my excuses & apologies, the mentioned Interesting Woman, and Rudolf the old anarchist, will be treated soon, I just felt not up to task today. Blame the heat.
Now that you read through this silly prattle, be awarded with some music : Give it a chance, King Crimson’s Starless. Let’s escape for twelve minutes.