THE DELENDA

THE DELENDA
A Requiem for My Wanton Words

The Purpose of this Delenda: A Limbo Between Digression and Deletion

During my last college semester I studied under a brilliant professor; he taught me to quiet my inner censor and to just write as I wish--despite my post-traumatic-professor-disorder which paralyzes me with self-doubt, these the war-wounds worn by so many students after years of terrible teachers, each either entirely apathetic or deeply entrenched within the utterly rote—their lectures just jaded regurgitations in Power Point, those slides cycling while the students fitfully sleep in-seat.I began writing a memoir for his class and I have yet to finish it; my writing has not been as clear and precise as it was while under my professor’s mentorship and I have more than doubled my original page length, though very little has actually been said therein. I am increasingly lent to my own obsessive compulsive writing tendencies. My prose has of-late been lost in loops and tangles of meaningless tangents—self-indulgent insertions of the beautiful words I love to taste in text.This blog is a collection of passages deleted from my memoir—an attempt to preserve wasted words, which are intrinsically sacred in spite of me. May they have their heaven here; may this final resting place, this Delenda, be better than nothing at all—better than true deletion.

If this unjust medium--this blog--be not the cure for my wild-fire writing, then surely The New School will be.

I was recently accepted to The New School in New York City for their MFA Creative Nonfiction Writing program for Fall 2010. Being accepted into such an esteemed university, being awarded such a coveted spot in their writing MFA program -- it's like winning the academic lottery. I have never been happier than I am in my dreams of a true academic setting. I know this will be the solace I have sought since being under the mentorship of my undergraduate writing professor.

This is me...

This is me...

This is me as well...

This is me as well...
In Death Valley, the Sand Dunes and Solitude Suited me Well.
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June 26, 2012

There is Still Time

ALL HE WHO IS KITH TO ME,
RELATIONS SEWN FROM LIKE ANXIETIES,
I HAVE COME TO REMIND
THAT THERE IS STILL TIME
(but it shall never be enough for us)


Erin wheeler
3/23/2012 ~ Free-writing
------------------------------


Quiet those taciturn, internal taunters when they take residence in the mind, whispering from within in, rebuking all your endeavored engagments, exposing the grand futility inherent in your attempts to participate in life. Hush that ever-echoing mental chorus, which plagues the heart of all who understand how fleeting and Sisyphean our lot in life ultimately is. These fears are not unfounded, rather unproductive. What time you waste withdrawn, granting audience to those oppressive solicitors, seducing the insecure mind to succumb to the frenzy of hindsight, which blinds you to all ways but the way from which you already came. Knowing that scarcely there exists a pursuit so perfect, that it is equal to the value of time you have spent doing it, as time is of infinite, instinsic value, and thus nothing but that task of equally infinite value can ever be deemed a good use of it. But this is not to say you are squandering it; you only waste the time when it passes in the lapse of your noticing it. You offend the nature of time only when it progresses in the absence of your awareness, and in any lost hour wherein you do not ugently pursue some action--be it any task at all, rote and riveting alike--any motion is more meritorious than joining humanity's wealth of the unmoved soul...and you haven"t done yourself any grave injustice, so long as you stay sentient in the locus of this moment most presently; this alone assures you shall never fall in step with the rest of man, most of whom live and die unbeknowst to themselves, just sleep-walking through the gift of existence, their soul in locked in some willful comatose. Only somnolence and apathy truly wastes our one most precious serendipity --that rather than nothing ever existing at all, there is Something -- messy, disordered, spooky at a distance, but Something, all the still. If this is the only bit of Being we're allotted before we cease to Be entirely, in the moment post-death when we return to the earth and the soil that gave us rise eons prior reclaims us and disembodies us, bit by ever smaller bit, until soil is all that is left, dirt where once was man and his unique propensity for intellect and sentience. True -- I should say, yes most probably. I hope otherwise but I dio not expect that to ever be the case. This is it -- if you come to find postmortum that I was wrong about this, I doubt you'll regret that you held that beneign assumption, for who could in earnest say they resent the false maxim they held to when that very notion of our one-time temporary mortality that gave us motive for actively living it?
Do notbe taken under by that depraved second-cousin of Truth -- which is, namely, Panic, wherein you find yourself knowing What, but never What to Do. The truth may set you free, but Panic has you in a holding tank. Your adaptability to undersible truths .is paramount; otherwise the fear of the truth -- though less or none the truth itself-- shall become so encumbering, your entire world will appeaer plagued by it, and it becomes a harrowing blight upon within every lucid man. soul with the profound anxieties over our own tenuous mortality. And if that calamitous self-depreciation cannot be subdued, allow yourself at least this meager solace:
There is still time, if too little of it;
there is still restitution to come, if too late
to spare yourself the worry over it.
Afford your soul such requisite reprieve,
simply in remembering these two things.

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