Sick Of....

Looking at my own face. I need to post something so that it at least gets bumped down a bit.

I have written three posts since I posted my pictures, and deleted them all. They just sounded wrong, stupid, boring. Maybe I should have saved them? Hell they're probably saved thanks to google's idiot proof blogging system. I bet they're laying in wait for me in the draft folders. Crouched, waiting to attack me with my own words.

Lately I felt really funky...sort of in a middle place. I can't form here in this space....thoughts, writings, conversations, it's all very murky and disembodied. I feel this strange anxiety in the pit of my stomach as if something big is about to happen. I find myself fantasizing, staring off into space, and just being really unproductive. I feel the urge to move. To throw our stuff into suitcases and leave.

So postings...well I start a half dozen thoughts...I started thinking about love. Wrote a bit, and then got lost in some Shakespeare Sonnets. By the time I found my way out, I hated my post and deleted it. I started another post on language because I'm kind of in love with Deleuze (another dead person Ernesto). But again, I started looking at quotes, and fell into another book. I think I want to post about bodies...my bodies, other people's bodies. I'm going through this thing right now where my body feels very immediate to me. Very sensual and yet scary, dark, and powerful. I don't know. I call these my goddess times and I haven't had one in a long time. They make me feel....strange...like I could give birth to the world, like I hold death and life in the pit of my belly. I scare myself a bit when these moods come. It's not me, you see, who feels this way. It's like there is someone else inside me. Someone who has lay dormant and then rises up. I'm sure I sound psycho...and maybe I am.