Bad habits be gone...

In an attempt to conquer all my bad habits (right... like that is a possible task), I have been trying to go back and adress the issue of inspiration versus craft. For so long my only real "literary" production (save for the silly word games I play, but of course those I take very un-seriously) has always been guided by the "poet as a vessel of the gods" model. No, no messianic complexes here, nor overly developed sense of self-esteem. I don't vouch for the quality of the production, but I have always only been able to write "when the spirit moves me". Well, spirit... you seem to have gone away, so I decided to take matters into my own hands and actually try to excercise "craft" over a particular story. Terribly slow going, I am afraid. And it occurs to me that what I considered "divine inspiration" was really only a ruse to mask my own intrinsic laziness. There, I said it. Me not going back and adding or fixing or changing things that I have written reflects not their inherent perfection (or my belief of such perfection) but merely my own lack of motivation, talent and follow-through. Damn, honesty hurts... self-deception is much more comfortable.

But... I like the changes I made so far, albeit small ones. And, who said things had to go quickly, except the urgent voice that shouts directions in my internal monologue? Why am I so damn obsessive? Why am I so fucking impatient? Why do I always need to be doing something? Why can't I just be? There must be some drug I could take to kill that part of me, no? Then what would be left? Bliss?

Funny, a few weeks back (just before we decided to go to the Comic museum, oddly enough) Becca was talking about a study that she had read (or heard about on the radio... we were discussing the whole tranny-fetish thing) about testosterone and its effect on people (of all genders) and how there was a man who had a disorder that caused a testosterone production failure, that went undiagnosed for several months, in which time he wandered around looking at the world as if it were beautiful, and peaceful and marvelous... His description was oddly like the Nirvana that is sought through deep meditation. Now here is the real question... could the prophets who have experienced this bliss really not been under the same sort of negative-testosterone spell? Or could ascetic meditation have some sort of effect on testosterone production? Hmmm, I wonder. We were also discussing some (very possibly pseudo-) scientific research which links hand-span or finger length to presence of mathematical ability in women and also testosterone levels... We know it makes people more productive, but productive towards what goals may be the question...


Grumble grumble. Whine, whine. I am going to go get undressed now, and take a shower, and let the water falling down on me wash away some of this dissatisfaction. Then I am going to put the creative cap back on and continue work on a translation. I will not avoid work, I will not obsess, I will not be cruel to myself, I will not want that which I cannot have. Oh, there I go again, bad habits do refuse to be banished.