i like caves. also, living.

I've been having intermittently surrealistic experiences of living, lately. 

I'll be walking along, stare down into the reflections in the puddles on the ground, and the thought will occur to me that I'm alive. Not only that, but I'm alive here and now. 

Like the Fatboy Slim song:

RIGHT HERE

RIGHT NOW

he was on to something. 

well the immediacy of the moment, and the power of this realization that I am a LIVING thing just overwhelms me with the purest of ecstasy. It's like, I've been doing this for almost twenty years now, but it feels so fresh and more real than it ever has before. 

I've also been realizing the unreliability in my perception, and the interest that comes from that unreliability. Take last night, I was lying in bed with my contacts out and my knees bent fetal-position, just staring out into space. I noticed how huge my kneecaps looked in comparison to the tiny three-legged table six feet away from me. I know that table is actually bigger than my knee caps, but if someone painted an exact replica of the image I was construing via my perception in that moment, then my kneecaps would be quite larger than the table. It's all very strange, really. It reminds me of when I was younger and would go cross-eyed on purpose to stare at my hand as it slowly separated into two. To me, then, this was magic. And to me, now, I'm being re-introduced to the magic. Magic, I'm sorry I've forgotten you. But now I am delighted to make your re-acquaintance. 

Jonathan Safran Foer came into our creative writing class yesterday. That was nice. He discussed his new non-fiction novel, which is about his experience traveling across America witnessing animal cruelty on factory farms. Not like it hasn't been pointed out before, but it's great that more people are interested in renouncing it. It's still a pretty big 'what the fuck' for me that 96% of Americans don't agree with animal cruelty. yeah. but they'll agree with that piece of meat on their dinner plate. yuck :(

anyways, he talked about how being a writer is a matter of making a choice every day to continue with this "profession" as a writer. And hence, write. Well, I don't write everyday. I don't make any sort of choice any day. I just accept the fact that I am a writer. And I write when it's right (hah). But, he's got a point. If I don't actualize my status through the actual ACT of writing, then what am I doing? Simply fucking around waiting for the beautiful instant of inspiration? Yeah, I can't keep kidding myself. I must set out a sacred space for myself to write within, every day. Routine. To the point where I feel starved without it. A new sort of nutrition, creativity is. I'll start feeding myself.