Today I woke up and packed my stuff to go to D.C. for the weekend. The Washington Nationals are in the playoffs, and I’m going to watch the first two games. I’m also going to visit with my parents, grandparents, and brother. It also happens to be Yom Kippur. I’m not religious at this age, but my grandfather has become more conscious of religion in his old age, and it will make him happy if I attend services with him.
Then I had a 3-hour rehearsal with my sketch team, and a brief planning session I afterwards.
Then got on the bus and began to write. I had some brief rewrites of sketches, which took a few minutes. But I’m also planning on teaching sketch classes, and I tried to write out some syllabi. It’s very hard; I’m trying to summarize abstract concepts that mean a lot to me, in readable, digestible ways. And before I summarize them, I start thinking about them, and the field of writing is so vast and abstract that it’s easy to get lost in thought. That doesn’t make it any easier to come up with concise summaries.
In general, I find writing about myself and things I think a lot about to be hard, especially if I do it directly. It is much easier to write about small things, and to bring my self and thoughts into them.
In general, I find it hard to express things adequately; more precisely find it impossible to express thing adequately, and hard to tolerate my inadequate expression of those things.
And you see now why the writing derailed me. Or do you? (The theoretical “you,” the you I imagine when writing this, although it is altogether possible, even probable, that the “you” will never manifest itself as a real person). Have I expressed that adequately?
Anyway, I did not finish writing the syllabi. I searched my computer for some samples of fiction writing to send to a friend to try to get into a fiction-writing group. I typed an email to the friend telling him what samples I was sending, and then tried to upload them. The wireless on the bus was too slow, and my browser crashed, so the email was lost.
Then I read a few good articles in the New York Review of books. The best one was about the foolishness of thinking about information without reference to consciousness. I think about this a lot, that the rational structure of the world, while very useful to analyze, is meaningless without sentiment, that the basis of our thoughts is emotional, that our intellectual functions are built over feeling. I don’t know how to articulate it, but what I do know is that the articulation will not, cannot, be equal to the thought.
I got home, and got picked up by my parents. We talked for a while, and then they went to bed. I tried to work, and got a little done, but I was running out steam, and time has dragged on. If I were fully alert, I could have done all of the work (writing, emailing, etc.) that I did in the past two hours in half an hour. I have been awake for too long; but there is more I have to do before I can feel good and sleep.
Things are good, but I need my rest.