'Is this a human or more or less than one? Where is the true impermeable community of the second human whose arms do not easily arrange themselves and for whom the salaries and weddings and garages do not come?'

yes. more please

“This morning the impulse was to read every book. I was cleaved apart by invisible axes, crumbling, full of nausea, stinking of biology with 980 pounds tied to each limb. That's an awkward way to do one's work.”

“Other things that cause discomfort: people picking through the trash for their food. There are those who want "only the best" and those who believe only-the-best is immoral. I would talk about these two impulses, one for comfort, the other for justice, and how one appears animal, the other not that animal at all, for what dog says of her litter, "It is not only my own that should have my milk, but I will suckle the world"? I would like to meet that dog. I am the dog who can never be happy because I am imagining the unhappiness of other dogs.”

“Every morning I wake up with a renewed commitment to learning to be what I am not.”

“Everyday I have a list called "Everyday."”

“These were the years that I believed it was still possible to move in cars down streets while socked-in-the-gut about the terror hidden in the history of objects, in the stores full of objects, in the homes, also, full of objects. I believed that leaving most of the furniture for the neighbors made room in the bed of the truck for my books, but having left all I had so I could keep for myself what I had tried so hard to gather, my books were soon ruined by rain. I was deprived of objects and the world of objects, but because of this I was in thrall to such boring things, like finding chairs by dumpsters, and in this I was reminded exactly of my resentment of you.” 

I find it fascinating, the way writers can categorise their lives and feelings by what they write, how often, for what purpose. Boyer utilises this necessity, as a writer, to understand oneself through writing, and breathes creativity into it, and deliberately politicises it because, of course, writing is more political than anything else. I could certainly read this again, it's hard to keep a grip on for the way it slips between styles and forms but it explains itself and is incredibly thought provoking.

There is in not writing not very much time spent on envy which is a pang, mostly, which is motivating like getting a buzz from an outlet telling one to remove one's hand from the outlet, from the power source. There is the way that the lives of others seem so often unenviable and only enviable as they are 'writing' when all this time is spent not writing like right now in the not writing in which I should be dealing with bills, mail, laundry, my bedroom, months of emails from October onward even though it is now June, with my jobs, with care, with the contents of my refrigerator, with friendship, with my body which wants to get in the swimming pool with my body which wants to turn brown in the sun with my body which wants to drink some tea with my body which wants to do shoulder presses which wants to join a gym which wants to take a shower and get cleaned up which wants a lover which mostly wants to swim and then there is 'not writing'. There is envy which is also mixed with repulsion at those who do not have a long list of not writing to do.