I am 'out of' words

Today:

Rusty movements, unfocused, inefficient, easily distracted [diverted]. A routine I am trying to get into as planned. It's hard to because of this scatter-self inertia. I feel no guilt because I am making my best effort. It is just going to have to be more gradual, step-by-step. This in my life I have come to accept, even love. The words I am writing are circling around their intended target, but missing their mark. It is as if the [my] intention aims them straight, but then as soon as they get into [the process of] being composed and then written on paper, they become skewed. Yet is it possible to even have a thought without [before (out of)] words? I think so. [It is a belief I have more or less held throughout my life without really considering so.] Or does it [really just] mean that the thought is therefore unclear? [to begin with, because (it's) not clearly expressed?] I['ve] always think [thought] myself clearer just on the verge of the conscious, before the damned specifics and practicalities [have to] come in. But I love the specifics, practicalities, because they are what I need, like a lover for me. They are unknown. The whole experience here is disorienting and at the same time lucidifying. What am I saying?

A couple of weeks ago, on the train to or from Lanzhou:

A test to see if my mind has been emptied of words in this virtual vacuum, or perhaps just more focused: bloakust, locust. A Britishism, a dark, ancient Chinese thing. I have been having the urge to make more sense in my writing than before. (Too much explaining to non-native speakers [but the want to explain, to be comprehensible. Mostly to my love.]) Feeling more responsibility to an audience. A woman looking for sleep. My language seems more focused for being collapsed in on itself. I suppose it is a defense in this unfamiliar place [and job] to retain my identity. Or maybe it is that at home I am more fractured by extensions of myself in language all around, distracted from myself, whereas here, I consolidate, become more simple, clearer[(?)], but also less wild. I dread... becoming a record-book.

A rough, unfinished, hypertext poem I wrote during my H1N1 vacation from school/work:
Viewing (Hexagram 20)


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I don't wish to explain these confused, automatic-writing scribblings from my notebook. Or the poem, for now. Rather, I should say, I don't think I can. But I feel these explain how I've been since moving to Aston 2 better than I could by giving you all concrete details of my life. I do, however, welcome your (dear friends and family) interpretations. Nay, I feel I need them.

I only wish to explain that in the second scribbling I am not referring to the language of the scribblings themselves (which is certainly not clear), but the language of the poem relative to my other poetry. However, I do find myself using personal pronouns in my writing in general more than before. Finally, I want to say that I feel the title of my blog is more appropriate than I originally thought, but/and I am experiencing great love here as well.