Today I wrote 11 pages and got to page 108 of TNP. The old brain is getting mushier and mushier. Blanker and blanker. Less and less "dressed for company." So many shadows of deep thoughts are racing past, too fast for me to catch hold of them. They're just there, flying past, and I catch them on the afterthought. I wonder if I'll ever be able to explore--much less articulate--any of them through all this mush.
The whole world of thought seems so overwhelming and all of language just seems like a jumble of so many pale, insignificant, tired cliches. I just want to make up new words that communicate the real meaning of things because the everyday words we use simply seem too stale, too weak for it.
Usually when this happens, I hate it. I get depressed, I get frustrated, I stop writing, and I run for cover in some safe, seemingly innocuous, temperature-controlled Cubicle-Land-type shelter.
I will not do that this time.