Caribou of Bluster
Feb. 24th, 2023 09:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ismoWalker Percy on the subject of why writers drink:
"He is marooned in his cortex. Therefore it is his cortex he must assault. Worse, actually. He, his self, is marooned in his left cortex, locus of consciousness according to Eccles. Yet his work, if he is any good, comes from listening to his right brain, locus of the unconscious knowledge of the fit and form of things. So, unlike the artist who can fool and cajole his right brain and get it going by messing in paints and clay and stone, the natural playground of the dreaming child self, there sits the poor writer, rigid as a stick, pencil poised, with no choice but to wait in fear and trembling until the spark jumps the commissure. Hence his notorious penchant for superstition* and small obsessive and compulsive acts such as lining up paper exactly foursquare with desk. Then, failing in these frantic invocations and after the right brain falls as silent as the sphinx—what else can it do?—nothing remains, if the right won’t talk, but to assault the left with alcohol, which of course is a depressant and which does of course knock out that grim angel guarding the gate of Paradise and let the poor half-brained writer in and a good deal else besides. But by now the writer is drunk, his presiding left-brained craftsman-consciousness laid out flat, trampled by the rampant imagery from the right and a horde of reptilian demons from below."
As it happens, I don't drink--at least, not on a regular basis--but sometimes I wish that I did. Especially on days when I have tried to get more sleep by going to bed early, and only succeeded in waking up at 4 am instead. I had to take a nap when the Sparrowhawk went off to the gym. The roads were clear enough by that time. While I was napping, I dreamed that I was going on a three-day hike in the Adirondacks. The park staff gave us knapsacks made of some soft rubbery substance, like what Crocs are made of, and colored bright yellow. They said it made it easier to keep track of us. They handed us our rations, which included a lobster. I thought it didn't matter what we had to eat, as I could certainly survive three days without food. But I was concerned that I had not brought any spare underwear.
Perhaps I was thinking about our impending grip to Chicago! The Philosopher has communicated with us! It turns out that one reason for his delay was that he somehow missed our first email suggesting some times for a visit. We offered to go there on Sunday for a few days, but on consideration, they decided they would rather we came on our second choice, March 8th to the 12th. So that's our plan. On the one hand, it's a relief not to be in a hurry to pack up for this Sunday. On the other, we regret not seeing the wonder child immediately!
I got nothing else done this morning. I've been groggy and low in spirits all day. It proved impossible to do any more shoveling of the ice. The Sparrowhawk gave it a try, with an iron spade, and couldn't make a dent in it. We also missed our usual Zoom with Deb and the Prussian. They are among the thousands without power after the storm. Their oldest son, who lives in the same town, is also without power, so after one night of freezing in the dark, they have gone to stay with friends who are still on the grid.
I did get a little writing done--500 words, which is more than I've managed since falling into this slough of despond. Also, I boiled the heck out of those beans, but by suppertime they were still chewy, and I was forced to ask the Sparrowhawk to get some canned ones from the basement. After being soaked overnight and boiled for SIX HOURS they were finally soft enough to be edible. Dried beans are just a recurring disappointment in my life. Every few years I forget what a crock they were last time, succumb to optimism, and give them another try. They are just a whole lot of nope in a pot.
"He is marooned in his cortex. Therefore it is his cortex he must assault. Worse, actually. He, his self, is marooned in his left cortex, locus of consciousness according to Eccles. Yet his work, if he is any good, comes from listening to his right brain, locus of the unconscious knowledge of the fit and form of things. So, unlike the artist who can fool and cajole his right brain and get it going by messing in paints and clay and stone, the natural playground of the dreaming child self, there sits the poor writer, rigid as a stick, pencil poised, with no choice but to wait in fear and trembling until the spark jumps the commissure. Hence his notorious penchant for superstition* and small obsessive and compulsive acts such as lining up paper exactly foursquare with desk. Then, failing in these frantic invocations and after the right brain falls as silent as the sphinx—what else can it do?—nothing remains, if the right won’t talk, but to assault the left with alcohol, which of course is a depressant and which does of course knock out that grim angel guarding the gate of Paradise and let the poor half-brained writer in and a good deal else besides. But by now the writer is drunk, his presiding left-brained craftsman-consciousness laid out flat, trampled by the rampant imagery from the right and a horde of reptilian demons from below."
As it happens, I don't drink--at least, not on a regular basis--but sometimes I wish that I did. Especially on days when I have tried to get more sleep by going to bed early, and only succeeded in waking up at 4 am instead. I had to take a nap when the Sparrowhawk went off to the gym. The roads were clear enough by that time. While I was napping, I dreamed that I was going on a three-day hike in the Adirondacks. The park staff gave us knapsacks made of some soft rubbery substance, like what Crocs are made of, and colored bright yellow. They said it made it easier to keep track of us. They handed us our rations, which included a lobster. I thought it didn't matter what we had to eat, as I could certainly survive three days without food. But I was concerned that I had not brought any spare underwear.
Perhaps I was thinking about our impending grip to Chicago! The Philosopher has communicated with us! It turns out that one reason for his delay was that he somehow missed our first email suggesting some times for a visit. We offered to go there on Sunday for a few days, but on consideration, they decided they would rather we came on our second choice, March 8th to the 12th. So that's our plan. On the one hand, it's a relief not to be in a hurry to pack up for this Sunday. On the other, we regret not seeing the wonder child immediately!
I got nothing else done this morning. I've been groggy and low in spirits all day. It proved impossible to do any more shoveling of the ice. The Sparrowhawk gave it a try, with an iron spade, and couldn't make a dent in it. We also missed our usual Zoom with Deb and the Prussian. They are among the thousands without power after the storm. Their oldest son, who lives in the same town, is also without power, so after one night of freezing in the dark, they have gone to stay with friends who are still on the grid.
I did get a little writing done--500 words, which is more than I've managed since falling into this slough of despond. Also, I boiled the heck out of those beans, but by suppertime they were still chewy, and I was forced to ask the Sparrowhawk to get some canned ones from the basement. After being soaked overnight and boiled for SIX HOURS they were finally soft enough to be edible. Dried beans are just a recurring disappointment in my life. Every few years I forget what a crock they were last time, succumb to optimism, and give them another try. They are just a whole lot of nope in a pot.
