Earlier in the week I almost said, "I don't really have that sort of writing anxiety." Luckily, I caught myself. But apparently just thinking it was, as Jesus instructs, enough. Now I'm awash in self-doubt over my tendency to go baroque. That entry from yesterday, the one I copied over from my handwritten journal, that's more or less how I write without a filter. It takes lots of work to render my prolix musings more accessible. I often acknowledge as much, yet usually don't feel the force of the acknowledgment as much as I should. There have been other times since I started this blog when I felt uncomfortably exposed, like when I was reflecting on Jane Campion's In The Cut and Steven took issue with my reference to Judith Butler's work. Today is a little different, though, because I was more aware of what I was doing when I posted my entry on "point." Somehow that self-consciousness isn't shielding me the way I thought it would. I'm beset with intimations of my own freakishness, convinced that the bridges I try so hard to maintain between academic and non-academic life are structurally unsound, beautiful but doomed. Then again, it may just be the combination of residual antihistamine and resurgent congestion that's making me go dark. I'll keep you posted.