Musings of Ishmael

I realize that three posts in so many hours is quite excessive, but I also realize that most probably no one reads this anyway, so it shouldn't matter all that much. I'm just humming with energy and can't quite focus it on any of the things that I'm supposed to be doing such as reading one of my two books sitting in my pockets for my British Modernism class or writing/revising the story I posted on Facebook.

I think I may actually save that for next month which just happens to be National Novel Writing Month. Unlike in days past where inspiration just kind of peters out in my head and I end up writing myself into a corner, I have plenty of ideas in my head - almost too many. However, with all of the work I've been doing lately, I've been feeling too congested to just let it flow. If other people cared more, I could probably keep writing it despite the congestion, but it's not their job to care, it's mine to write despite other people.

Thinking about all of this British Modernism crap has caused me to think a lot about my writing. It hasn't helped me craft at all and I still think that arguing about Literature analysis is pointless, arrogant, and stupid, but some of the individual topics have struck a cord in me. Kelly, I'm sure you'd be proud of yourself. I still feel antagonistic towards the material just on principle as I still believe literature analysis to be rape most foul, violating the work and the author alike, but I no longer feel antagonistic towards you.

From my first experiences with this class, I felt that if a class were to hook me and keep me interested, it would not be this one. However, through the extreme antagonism and violent fights that it's caused, it has grabbed a hold on me and practically beat me into submission. I feel like its quickly becoming my goal to grab it back and render my superiority over it. Even if I come out of that class with a less than decent grade, I will understand the material.

The book that we are reading right now (or rather, supposed to have had read for last Thursday) has really got its claws in me for better or for worse. It's a compilation on three novellas, The Fox, The Captain's Doll, and The Ladybird, all with the explicit theme that can be summed up as love and emotion are evil and we should deny them to refrain from being hurt. Usually, when reading something that I get really into, I take up the personality of one of the main characters in the text and am inflicted with their personalities. Thankfully, this is not the case this time. Although I have noticed a decline in my sex drive, I think no less of love. Instead, I feel that I am becoming harmonized with the novellas themselves, with the Art that they are a part of. I feel that my writing shows this as do my musings. I can't explain any further, but let me say that I finally understand what it means to say that you want to capture something before it is anything. I am driven for the same, but held back by the very same impulse. Almost as if I am a puppet held by the strings of this Art, ready for action, but waiting for the right time.

Something isn't complete within me though. Every time I think about this particular thing, my brow furrows and I feel as if my soul is under construction. Maybe that's what I'm waiting for, the construction to be finished.

I know, however, that what I write, no matter how influenced by works of British Modernism, will never be termed Modernism. Not because of the time period within which I live because I feel that Eysteinsson is right to argue that Modernism in itself has no time period (though I'm still trying to determine exactly what Modernism is), but because it follows strict formalism. If there's anything I can't deal with, it's formalism. How can you expect to have something truly pure if you allow it to be contrived in a such a way, no matter how organic?

I need to run so that I can get filled with caffeine before my next class, so I will hold off on my ponderings for now.