On Writing and Right Now

What is it going to take for me to write every day? I am being really hard on myself right now. But really, it feels like now more than ever there is material that floats on through this vast, full space between my ears -- words that I listen to myself say into a voice memo of (sometimes), but then don't write down or type anywhere. I journal maybe once every 2-3 days, but it feels like it's more for recording purposes and, while cathartic, that feeling part is secondary. I'm writing things down so that someone can benefit from this. That feels important to me. Why can't I benefit from this? Why isn't that the most important to me now? Perhaps it's the oft-suppressed healer within that hopes others can benefit.

There are so many stories that have come to me that I haven't put words to. It gives them more power and makes me fear of them more real. I wonder if they would release if I gave them voice. When I do give voice to these fears that have become feelings, they feel less powerful but they don't really wane.

Science in a sort of Frankenstein's monster form feels to be taking over the world on a large scale  -- we spray poison on our crops and call what pops up food. (I read something about Portugal, a country once abundantly green and self-sustaining, alive with its people selling their goods at market, recently being essentially a GMO-farm wasteland due to U.S. importation demands and its citizens essentially completely displaced, selling their souls so that Americans can have our palettes satisfied with off-season, chemical-laden crop. This is just one anecdote. I believe it was actually a VICE episode. One of the few shows on TV worth watching, it seems.) We turn to doctors to tell us what we already intuit about our bodies, to scientists (whose answers are dependent on whomever it is they're employed by) to tell us how to exist in the world due to whatever "evidence" it is that they uncover. We listen to them or don't listen to them depending on which "side" our political allegiance falls, and the outcome is all the same -- it's all a game, but the twist is that no one wins. We turn to our iPhones for answers, for contact, for distraction, rather than to books, to the person next to us, to our innermost selves so that we can learn we don't have anything within (or without) that needs fleeing from. I walked Scout downtown today and passed a father with two young kids under 3 in the backyard engaged in an animate conversation on his cell phone. This time might have passed for a quality afternoon with his children, except for there was little genuine contact between generations shared in that backyard. Science has become a blind, ravaging monster in this culture, and anyone paying attention knows it.

Science affects art as well, and it feels detrimental to me. How much harder is it to write with the constant distraction of the internet when one logs on to blog, or goes to write but finds it much easier to record a memo to oneself and then never ends up writing down that thought or message or idea at all?