Friday, November 3, 2006


Sitting in my computer class yesterday, I was discussing website development and bemoaning the fact that a website I've agreed to create has no CONTENT (which is the number one thing you need, BEFORE layout, and cute graphics, and rollover buttons!) and I said "I can do the code, but I can't _write._"

That struck me:
I used to write.
I used to write well.
Then a chunk of my brain decided to grow all wonky, and after 14 hours of surgery and months of confusion, dizziness, and migraines, I discovered that something was missing.
A lot was missing. What wasn't missing was damaged.
My hearing.
My balance.
My memory.

I used to hear music in the center of my head--I loved loud music and live it's all on one side and kind of flat.

When I read poetry I could hear it, like music, in my head. Incredible depths and far off whispers, and a sense of something greater than the words alone.
When I wrote, I could reach that level, where as I wrote I could hear the different stories and worlds building. I could _feel_ it, I could direct it.

I no longer read poetry. Even stuff I loved, before.
Now it's like sensing something just beyond the edge of the light, something huge and ponderous and incredible, but never being able to see it.
It's like remembering how music _really_ sounds.
It's like seeing a photo of yourself, and having no idea when it was taken or what you were doing.

My writing is like that, now.
I can feel it almost becoming music, but I get lost in trying to get the words out of my head and the tune falters, dies.
Even this whole entry disgusts me--it's _almost_ what I wanted to say, and how I wanted to say it, but that's like saying a little melody is _almost_ an orchestral score.

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