Thursday, May 24, 2018

The Moth

I haven't been writing on this blog because every spare moment I have to write I have been working on Blue. I wonder what it will be like one day to be no longer working on Blue and to write something else, or even, to do something else, like make a collage or something. Or write a blog post, like this. Perhaps many. Perhaps I will finally start writing short stories and send them off to journals and stuff, and have them published and feel better about myself. Maybe I'll win a prize and feel exceptionally good about myself. Perhaps I will never ever want to write again and choose instead to do cartwheels out the back in these moments of unclutter, when I have my mind to myself, and can choose what I want to do with it.

I made a pact, a decade ago, to not allow myself to do anything else until this book was finished. I always ignore my own pacts, but this one has remained stiff, give or take a few blog posts and even a few applications for grants i'll never get. You're not supposed to say things like that - don't block yourself from receiving things like that - but I know I won't get them and I know that's right because I don't deserve them. But that doesn't make my book wrong, perhaps that even makes it right. I am blabbering. You should never read this.

Last night I had a dream that I was on this short beach and there was a murderer inside this building in which I was, and I was a waitress who kept leaving mess everywhere. The murderer was coming. There is always a murderer coming in my dreams. Outside on the short beach the tide went way out leaving giant octupuses - octopi - stranded on the sand. There was also a shark, who was the murderer, and he was coming, and we were all doomed. But being stranded amongst the octopi the shark had no way of getting to us. I struggled to identify him amongst the heaving piles rubbery flesh and tentacles, but I knew he was there. Eventually the octopi disappeared, as did the shark, and inside, in our waiter suits, there was a very big mess. But who is going to clean up the beach? I cried. Who is going to clean up the beach?

I am going to finish this book, I promise (myself). The Moth keeps coming back into it, though i try to flick it away. Why does a Moth insist on being part of this book? I am obsessed with Moths now, yesterday I almost missed my train stop for being engrossed in a book of entomology. Did you know Nabokov was an entomologist? 

Not many people believe in the 'moon' theory - that moths fly into lightbulbs because their self-tracking toward the moon becomes disoriented. Most entomologists believe they simply find the light irresistible - they can't pull themselves away. 


Emmet Gowin


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