Manet, the notorious badass of the Salon des Refusés.
After about 3 months of avoiding my blog, I finally decided, while avoiding my daily responsibilities, to just hold my breath and return to take a look at the neglected landscape. When I signed in, I found the below pending comment on my dashboard:
I discovered your blog while googling about underachieving, and you have inspired me to go ahead with starting a blog. I didn’t think people actually blogged like regular literature authors and always felt I lacked in edgy hipness, but after reading all of your poetic posts, I feel like I may have fellow anti- conformist bloggers to relate to after all. -Bessie Malt
I originally began writing a reply to your comment, Bessie, in the comment section where you’re supposed to write replies to comments. But as is typical for me, my reply became longer and longer and I kept writing and couldn’t cut off the spigot and had no desire to anyway. So I ultimately drafted a 683-word response and decided to post it as a blog entry in itself. Continue reading
Photo Courtesy of Me
If you think I’ve been absent for so long (again) because I’ve been busy finding and getting a life, you’re sorely mistaken. Actually, it’s rather the opposite: I haven’t been around because I’ve been swallowed down deeper and deeper into the swamp of hibernation and have been lying there dormant and silent. I sank to the floor of the swamp sometime in the dead of winter, during January or February maybe, and remained sleeping there undisturbed and unruffled throughout the rest of the season. Meanwhile, the world has been going about its business and everyone has been living their lives and weathering the winter as always. All of the swamp life around me has been flourishing as well; the mallards and sparrows and screech owls have all been attending to their affairs. And I haven’t given much of a damn. I’ve been lying comfortably on the murky bottom, underneath everything, benevolently cloaked by silt and mud and sundew buds and covered by moss, saturated in the rich decaying biomatter seeping into me. It’s been quiet and very stagnant and very warm here and I haven’t had any desire to change things.
A few weeks ago, however, on a rare occasion that I’ve bothered to leave the house, I noticed that things are changing regardless when I visited a nearby stretch of woodland. Continue reading
While holed up in my room, I read this essay in defense of hermithood by someone much more accomplished than me, and felt redeemed for half a minute.
Emma Sokoloff-Rubin: Rules of Travel – Guernica / A Magazine of Art & Politics.
I’ve been walking to keep somewhat sane my entire life, but it only occurred to me to formalize these walks when things began to feel very distinctly insane. We all need some structure, right? About a year into my post-graduate underemployment spell—which is now my established status quo—I decided it might be worth the tradeoff in grocery money to splurge on gas once a month and treat myself to a day out. Given that underemployment and languor are now officially part of my life, I concluded that a monthly day off from brooding in my rented room about my existential dilemma is necessary for sanity maintenance and in turn survival. That is, I began to realize that if I were to continue to maintain an uninterrupted lifestyle of a nocturnal recluse for much longer, I would soon sink into an irreversible depressive coma, my brain would completely atrophy, and I would become a zombie catatonic idgit before my thirtieth birthday. Or, at least, I’d go from being only half crazy to being totally crazy; of this I am certain. Continue reading