van gogh. john nash. sylvia plath. jennifer napolitano.

I'm becoming more and more wary of that cliche of artists (or any creative-types, really) going crazy. Not so much the cliche itself, but the artists-going-crazy part is worrying me today. I literally cannot tell the difference anymore between what people have said in real life and what they've done in dreams. What I've said and what I imagined I said. Conversations that took place and conversations that I predicted but that did not take place. Things I've read to myself and things I've heard read aloud. Famous stories and stories my friends have written. Words I thought and words I put on paper. FANTASY and REALITY.

This is a good frame of mind to be in, because blurring the line between fantasy and reality is important for me right now. For instance, if I can't remember whether Halley (for example's sake, since I know she reads this ;)) said something or whether I had a dream about her saying something, it proves my dreams are realistic, that the characters stay true to themselves.

But, for practical reasons, and for reasons you all will probably understand best, this is not good. Because I always, always, always have remembered most everything, but especially conversations I've had with people. I was just getting used to the merit in being able to say, "I told you I don't like boiled carrots. We were standing in line at the Publix at Alafaya and McCollough, and you were wearing a pink cardigan. It was three days before Easter, and my hair was short, so it must have been.....2004. The cashier's name was Jose." (Okay, more serious than carrots, but you know.) But now when I say things like, "I told you I was obsessed with the Kennedys. You were standing next to my desk looking at my pictures and I was digging through the coat closet for a different purse," and then it turns out that never happened, obviously there's a problem. In this scenario, I was getting ready for someone to come over while digging through my coat closet (looking for a plastic bag), while thinking about the Kennedys. Then the person came over, and I ended up digging through the coat closet again. But in my head the two moments overlapped, and I was only in the closet once, and discussing the Kennedys out loud.

Sigh. The point is I'm losing my mind. I'm going to go back on my iron tomorrow, to see if that helps. But in the mean time, if you hear crazy news stories about graduate students wandering aimlessly around the streets of DC with no identification (which I've accidentally done), muttering things to themselves (which I do, quite literally, constantly), and wearing just one glove (I had two pairs but I lost three of them), you might want to make a couple of phone calls.

P.S. While thinking of names to put in the title of this, Sylvia Plath came to mind, because I genuinely and passionately love her. However, it occurs to me that Sylvia Plath is best known for sticking her head in an oven. Or for her novel about a girl who wants to stick her head in her oven. For the record, I have no intention of sticking my head in my oven. In fact, any time I even have to turn it on, I open the kitchen window. Yes, even when it's 28 degrees outside. Additionally, for the record, Ernest Hemingway is not best known for putting a bullet in his own head. But he did. Let's all reflect on why this might be.

january 21. winter is here.

I'm supposed to be finishing a story now, a story I've started about a 12-year-old boy who lives in the fictional pre-planned mini-town of Cypress Park, within the city limits of Orlando, FL. But instead I'm mesmorized by the snow. My body has taken over, and I'm enveloped in a strange subset of the emotion of calm. A branch of calm, if you will, that can only be described as the feeling of watching snow fall. It's a separate emotion unto itself. It has something to do with the dryness and ariyness of the snow, with forgetting how the snow turns to water as soon as it hits your body. But in here, I have a gigantic picture window and I've taken a hot bath so my skin is all saturated and bloated. I'm wrapped in a fluffy white robe and propped up with a pillow, and I don't really care about much else right now. Is this comfort? Maybe. I know it's only momentary. I should pull my blinds so I can work with only the normal distractions of my apartment. But I don't want to miss this, what may be the only snow until next winter. It's going to be difficult keeping in the mindset of a Floridian with all this happening outside. I really do not like the snow when I'm outside. But I'm happy with this feeling, right now.