I’ve been thinking about a certain hypersentivity to stimuli I have lately, or maybe always had and only can articulate it now-- sometimes visual, sometimes auditory or touch or taste oriented—--to various sounds, and colors, and sensations. Probably why I tend to be an artsy sort and also probably why I tend toward excess in a lot of things too much poetry, too much ambition, too much art, too many projects, too much food, booze, sex (insert various addictions here). Impulse control issues on just about everything in my life, which isn’t always a bad thing…..depending on what those things are (thank god I never started smoking, or I’d probably be dead already.) However, I think when I am at my most hypersentivity to these things is when I am at my most creative, at least in terms of ideas. A color, a song, a single image, can set off all sorts of plans in my head, poems to be written, art to be made, other little projects. It’s like this rush, this sugar high, which sets my mind and my heart racing. Sometimes it’s a little overwhelming, choosing which thing to do, which thing to divert these energies to. When there always seems to be so little time. On good days, I feel these things all the more, am more attuned to everything…..
But, really, these days are also terrible for actually, you know, working, in that I’m too scattered, too racing, too obsessed with stimuli, too distracted by shiny objects. Everything is too pretty, too distracting, too seductive. I'm high on new ideas, new brainstorms, new things to devote my energies to. Just too much going on in my head... Of course the flip side of all this is there are bad days, that are equal in their hypersensitivity, except, maybe it’s just my mood or external factors, I am just a mental mess. Too much light, too much noice, too many people, too many voices, too many obligations. Things that on a good day don’t even phase me. These are the days I feel most in danger of bad things happening. The days I take extra care in my physical space. The days I worry about getting hit by cars, of accidently hurting myself, getting pregnant, coming down with some terminal cancer, of messing up my life with some terrible mistake like slipping on the stairs or falling out a window. The days I feel like I’m in danger of fucking things up. When I’m feeling like I’m barely holding on to the thread that ties it all together.
The best days for work are probably in the long run, the days that are somewhere in between, when my head is not rushing, but focused, and calm, and capable of actually producing. Not flitting on to each new things, and not moribound in badness, but just plodding along. My days lately, for the past few weeks, have vascillated back and forth between the rushing, gushing happiness, and the downright miserable, sometimes running the gamut in the span of a single day. I’m no good for writing, or editing, or working on anything lately. The slightest thing falls out whack, the tiniest detail or skip in my routine, and I'm done for. At least for anything that involves mental exercize. Working with my hands is good, probably why I’ve been making so much jewelry, which I can do sort of rotely whilst watching movies or listening to music. But if it involves anything greater than deciding what bead to put where, I’m no good for any length of time. Maybe its summer legarthy, but I feel lazy. I have all sort of new ideas, but I feel I can’t deal with them until I execute the old ones, new projects that can’t be started until the old ones are finished. I hated myself so intensely yesterday for about an hour that I had to throw away my to do list.
Today, I’ve been distracted by collage ideas mostly, and it’s a good day, but did manage to get the cover designs under wraps for two chapbooks and another laid out. I was even, for a few moments very intensely happy on the bus on the way to work, reading my novel, wishing I were in Italy, and craving my daily raspberry scone. But one slightly bad thought filters in, and by the time we get downtown, I’m in a bad mood because of R, and him being a bastard, and a liar, and really sort of a monster in retrospect. And hating myself for still wanting him. And how much I hate that desire (not love, never love) apparently makes an idiot out of me. And suddenly, by the time I got to campus, I was in a good mood because I liked the way my new dress swished when I walked (it’s all about swishing..) Happy to sad to happy all in about a forty minute bus ride…I don’t know even what this entry has to do with anything, or why I’m writing it, except that the circ desk is very slow these long summer days, but then it’s just one of those days…I can’t concentrate on anything for shit…