it's personal discussion

This will be just like any other writing journal, though it will likely read, to anyone existing outside my brain, as a long and detailed essay on my grief over my having not been born Henry James. Comments are welcome!

More manuka and lemongrass tea; no voice again. How does a classical singer develop if he can never sing? I'll have to be content to spend some time stretching and warming up my creative muscles here before cutting into the "Twilight " saga. The skinning of those achievements ornamented with shining artificial pelts--this is among the most delicious--itself, perhaps the blackest-- of a critic's pleasures. I, for one, love the feel of a pelting knife.

But I can't be as liberal with it as I'd like, can I? No stab-stab-stab-stab-stabbing or slashing for me. No, but this is a wanton act, first-degree, and should be completed with careful movements, the elegant movements of an experienced cutter, a long-sitting judge,

And I have certainly judged Stephanie Meyer's work (hasn't everybody?), finding it unworthy of being read except as a light--very light--pleasure, though Dickens' "A Child's History of England" is quite light enough for me. But everyone already knows Meyer's books are bad. I simply have less patience for them than most, and why should I punish myself for it (though if I ever were to punish myself, I'd punish myself with "The Host." Then again, that wouldn't be fair to Hemingway and King, who sit crowned among my bête noires)? I'm not a snob; I'm simply impossible to please.

Especially with an artificial pelt. False worthiness. 750 pages do not make a book worthy of being read. Shakespearean inspiration doesn't make a book worthy of being read. Every writer is inspired by Shakespeare as it is, whether intentionally or not. Good work is good work, and bad work, etc. "Twilight" is bad enough to--not even merit words, even a single critical word. But I have to officially review it today. Why skip the pleasure?

Of course, my review will contain none of the belligerent, self-indulgent sentences I've just written, nor the metaphor that should also be confined to a journal entry. At the very least, they've made me feel better about being voiceless today--for the second week. "Vi ravviso, o luoghi ameni..." Well, I thought writing out the words of an aria might satisfy me in some way, but no.

Off I go, then, to the "Twilight" page, for a little fun. My apologies in advance, Mrs. Meyer.

It will happen. I will become more comfortable with the idea of keeping a public journal. Meantime, let my fingers be tight and hesitant as I muse a little on an idea or two.

Blue, to start--William H. Gass's blue, the blue that covers everything in one shade or another, in some measure, softly or darkly or hotly, under the light of any season's dawn or dusk. It flows through my mind in particles that move the way powder does in bathwater, and is one of those ideas that is too broad for summary but can be fruitfully contemplated in parts. Which part do I choose for this entry?

The fluidity of perception--good enough--the way a place, a picture, a person changes after a few minutes of my standing in the place or in front of the picture awhile, or of my looking long enough at him/her. Can one actually avoid the changes one's brain imposes--as it shifts its emotional weight to one leg of the cerebral cortex for a moment, then to the other--on the object of one's attention? In other words, can I maintain the objective "that is a table" and "those are eyes," or do table and eyes inevitably transform into a reminder of my responsibilities and a pair of match flames for the lighting of another brick of outlines I'm glad to have wasted time on? Perhaps I don't have to contemplate this much further. I've remembered that I can manipulate transformations, so that a chair can cocoon with the purpose of becoming a symbol of leisure or systemization, and emerge as a platypus instead.

And now I'm too tired for another idea, if there was another in the first place. I don't remember. Perception is a very blue thing in itself, I think. Or, maybe I've been gazing into the light of my computer screen for so long I'm convinced of that. Anyway, more blue light is becoming vivid now. It's almost a-quarter-to-seven in the morning. Time for a six-hour series of transformations in dreams.

In the process of writing a review of Joyce's "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" after watching "The Hours." Plenty of sentimentality, therefore, but I'll temper it with a little reading of Ozick or Gass, or maybe an essay or two from James' middle period. Not that James' later essays were as flowery as some have said. Every word is in its place, from what I can tell, but is also free, released to the page as James himself released all aesthetes to theirs. My review, if the day permits, will be finished tomorrow.

Meanwhile, convalescence. Any given flu lasts too, too long. Hopefully I'll be able to sing again in a few days. The swelling in my throat sometimes seems permanent, which I know isn't true, but I'm a little depressed all the same. Which means I will pour all of my energy into writing for the next few weeks as I try to avoid talking too much--to my frustration, because I'm dying to vomit praise of the "Portrait" and of James' "The Ambassadors" and Thoreau's "Walden" all over my family, most of whom will be happy for a month free of impromptu lectures.

Have had the Kraus recording of Mozart's complete piano concertos playing whilst writing. Now for some ASMR, then sleep.