I’ve been restless and bored today.. bored in the nothing could ever possibly entertain me kind of way. Impatient pacing, idly picking up then discarding books, laptop, tv remote, chocolate. Utterly incapable. It’s such a frustrating mood…
I just watched Pandaemonium with mumm; I’d burned & sent it to her ages ago when she was studying the Romantic poets and she still hadn’t seen it. I love it because I love Kubla Khan… (and hate Wordsworth). Watching it this time the drug-taking stood out much more to me. That there is no doubt.. STC wouldn’t have written his most fantastical works without opium. I feel uneasy about this.
I’m not sure why… the writing isn’t any less real, or his. He was clearly already genius. Envy? Surely not… The damage was clearly shown, moreso than the rewards. But I’ve never been able to create anything while under the influence of anything. I’ve written one poem whilst on mushrooms, and it was just silly and hilarious more than anything.
Words come together while the mind comes apart. I don’t need drugs for that.