In terms of events, does it seem worth reflecting on the fact that I moved countries yet again? I thought this would unleash a flood of words -- but what can I say? Moving makes you stupid and smart -- you're constantly figuring out the same things over again -- where the food is and how to get it.
I am often homesick, or rather, nostalgic for certain lights, scents, streets.
I do not recall when I began to write the above, but it reflects or states in part what I had just returned to begin. I have not written. I have been divorced from words. I had become addicted to the pithy punchline that was proclaimed to be forgotten in the noise that is not writing but gesturing.
I have not wanted to admit to certain traumas because they were willingly invited upon my person and then, in the nature of traumas, had the effect of rendering me mute and aphasic. It is strange, to forget that you ever could use words to do anything.
These things also happen in a country where those words do not produce any effect in those around you, where one is usually under the pressure to make every statement as plain and anonymous as possible.
So far I haven't been able to work up to a paragraph. I'm shocked to find that I've been writing in this thing for over ten years (allegedly) (inconsistently) (ok, the last 3 years don't even count because nothing at all has happened, barring six moves in four countries. You would think I would have a lot to say about that. You would think I had made 4000 friends. Well, I didn't). What was it all for? And yet -- without it -- what were those years at all? What was this year, or last, or the other one?
I need to stop ranting in the same unspecific way that I constantly berate my students for, except I THINK I have made most of my subjects and verbs agree and have a basic command of when to use "a" and "the." Also, to whom do I pose all these worthless questions?
Here is an anecdote:
shit, I can't think of one. I don't think anyone has really talked to me in months.
It has become, unfortunately, a last few weeks of waiting to go home. Hoping to be rescued (not likely). Hating myself for not being a hero like Nelson Mandela or Aung San Syu Kyi or that pianist that I read about once who played upon a sheet of paper with keys pencilled on it until leaving his prison, some large cold place like Russia. How shameful.