Random Notebook #6: To Rant or Not to Rant... Not the Question.

I am not at a loss for what to write—it’s simply that most of all of this is taking a lot of energy from me.  Sure, it is easy to blame distraction.  It is easier to blame the stress, and mood, and overall disposition, but I can’t continue to do this and avoid doing this work—the work that somehow keeps me at my desk, at a bare minimum (at least) it keeps me engaged.  And writing kept many other things alive.  I can’t imagine right now where all of this is taking me, but I must (damn that word again) keep writing and putting it all down on paper.  How I wish I could leave my world of worries behind.  All I do here is rant, aside from the sporadic plot that surfaces every now and then.  I have been reading Mailer’s “The Deer Park” with little or no motivation at all.  I think I was influenced by C.I.’s opinion about the book.  Right now, I am a little under half of the book and the motivation to finish it slip out of me as quickly as I am determined to read on.  I am reading, but the pages lag on slowly and I tire of it quickly.  It’s not the book, I am certain.  Every book has its merits, independent of whether or not it is a good book.  I have been inclined to think this way since I began to collect my library.  I feel responsible for finishing a book despite of how “good” or “bad” it is.  Every book has both elements, I am sure.  For example, “Stations of Solitude” by Alice Kohler was a book I read shortly after moving back to Ohio from Washington DC.  I picked up the book used on the strength of its title.  But I kept at it, and if for nothing else, the feeling of accomplishment I get from finishing a book.  Writing should be the same, but I find so many obstacles, most of them, of course, self-imposed.  If and when I do get down to writing like this, it is very hard for me to pass beyond the rant, and most of what I write sounds repetitive as a result.  But I feel good writing nonetheless.  My brain is always turning in so many directions, it is hard to see and evaluate what I should or should not write about; that is why I put it all here.  If I ever become a father, then when I am gone my children will get to keep a piece of my mind here—somewhat more permanent than my own corporeal self.  And, if the end is in fact so near, then all the better to put all of this down.  I don’t mean to sound pessimistic, but I have to face the reality of these days and the events that are unfolding as the hours pass.  Perhaps it is a bit ridiculous to think this way, but one must (damn that word again) be open to all the scenarios this might bring.  It’s more than simply coping, but rather the fact that there’s little.  No fantasy world will ever over-compensate for what is going on today, right now, at this very second, while the music plays in the background and I put pen to paper.  But in the interest of leaving this reality and this obsessions behind, I have to construct the fictions that make up the other part of my life.  The world of the imagination is supposed to take over, it is, if for the lack of a better term, an obligation I owe myself for the stress and downright suffering these days have brought me.  I have, for some odd reason, neglected the Visconti and the pleasure of that instrument in my hand, however mundane happens to be what I write about.  A new fascination—the Nixon tapes online at the National Archives site.  Why?  I have no idea.  Right here, right now, Beethoven’s Ninth playing on the CD player.  Nothing matters other than keeping the hand moving and writing about whatever.  I understand all of the emotions; I know where they come from.