I feel like I’m mourning the loss of the failure of high culture to ever really take hold within me: the failure to acquire languages, to memorize, to achieve sustained meditations. I feel shallow, cheep, addicted—worn out by my own lack of discipline.
I’ve never been vulnerable to boredom, only self-defeating dissipation.
What I’m after is the engendering of a text which speaks beyond the capabilities of my ordinary voice; I’m tired of speaking in the contemporary idiom, but increasingly, I feel limited to it.
What I would like is to forget everything other than the fire, the sunrise, the lover, the book, the taste of coffee, Bach: the rigorous unfolding of the Cantata of the self through sensation-infused thinking.