Some things are very dear

I intended to write a different entry today, or rather post a different entry, but seeing that my mind is cramped in this constricting mood I thought it best to just write and see where my writing takes me.
Today was spent mostly in bed, listening to the evenly modulated singing of several artists, writing my shadow blog on www.myspace.com/johndonne and reflecting on life - in general. I have been giving the story that has developed in my mind a great deal of thought, and last Sunday something dawned on me when I was discussing the merits of philosophy with a guy. It's silly trying to emulate established writers; I know it's been my goal to reach their level of artistry, but that - in a sense - means effacing myself to a certain extent. I should create my own way of constructing a narrative. Thinking about these things is quite easy; putting it all into practice is much, much harder. So - instead of raking my, already aching, brain - I've taken up studying African-American writers, and how they forged a narrative for themselves, build a tradition on the smouldering ashes of slavery, and fleshed out a culture by fusing old ways with the new, to see what they can teach me. I know. But, it's the most effective way to establish one's own style. See. Copy. Do.

I have spent quite some time studying rhetorics, and writing, writing, writing. Now, I feel that I have mastered the art of language enough to put pen to paper and draw blood from the particles that make up this universe, steal atoms, combine molecules to create my characters on paper. I've been writing a pretty, little story about a woman who loses her mind, or so it seems. I'm extremely interested in the position women take up in society - as a gay man it may seem strange that I would show any such interest, but the position women take up in society is inextricably bound to the position gay men take up in society. Gay men are always judged and viewed in relation to women, since they are in the eyes of most men not truly men; and if one's not truly male one cannot be anything else but female. This is the world of dichotomy. You're either one, or the other. So. If this patriarchal society questions women's sanity, gay men's sanity will not go unquestioned. It, too, will be judged accordingly.
But, this woman I'm writing about isn't mad at all. She is very much sane. It is society that labels her insane because she fails to comply with the set norms. It's not finished yet. I'm afraid it will remain so for the time being. I cannot write when I do not feel inspired, or when I feel that the words are just not right. Yesterday a girl who's also planning to write a first novel told me that she can write a hundred pages a day if she sat down to write. I was amazed, and impressed. I should thank God if I get to write ten pages a day. Usually, I produce one page a day. Some stories I can write quite easily; my mind just pours them on to paper. Others - like this story about the woman in a mental institution - are - in my mind - far more intricate and therefore need much more attention and care. Hence my deliberation.

I'm going to finish with a poem:

Some things should stay hidden
Behind golden clouds that smile
And say: "You're welcome sir.
All's forgiven, forgotten not
For another mile."

Something of the way you laugh
Will always ring at the break of day
The things you said when we lay
In bed will colour dark
Against the sky

(I am, now, but one step
Away from drowning in
The Northern wind)

So swift the earthy moods have changed
So solemn the trees chose the waves
While colours dance like yesterdays
Across the silver lakes to die.

"You're welcome sir. Another mile
We'll run, we'll sing, we'll play.
But behind our wooly coats will cry
All the things you chose to hide."