Not-Writing

I type this with blistered hands, hands not blistered from writing, as they should be, but from climbing. Though the blisters are on top of callouses, and maybe those callouses are from clutching my pen? Why do I doubt that?

So far this weekend, I've gym-rock-climbed, haunted the outskirts of a local Oktoberfest, climbed again, watched a new series, did sporadic research on murals in Belfast and even re-read parts of this awful blog in an attempt to avoid writing critical response papers.

I'm listening to a band I used to listen to summers in California after I'd returned from Ireland. They're kind of awful, but awful music tends to be a better back-drop for my critical writing.

The Dutchman has passed out on the couch after a 15-mile mountain-run, and I'm wondering what the Other is doing right now. I know that, by day, she's successfully yanking poetry from young Czech selves, and that's fairly impressive. I imagine that, by night, she's drinking better and cheaper beer than I am. I wonder what her critical writing process is like, without the constant and perhaps debilitating distractions I tracked so well in this blog?

Will I keep this up? I don't know. I have gone to many lengths to procrastinate. Even traveled many states.

One thing pulls me back--that Joyce quote. 'I hear nothing but your voice,' Jimmy to Nora. Perhaps procrastination is just a painful avoidance of times when you don't hear the voice.