“Writing is a form of personal freedom. It frees us from the mass identity we see in the making all around us. In the end, writers will write not to be outlaw heroes of some underculture but mainly to save themselves, to survive as individuals.” – Don Delillo
This much I will admit without any grudge: there have been valid, sensible, empathizable-with reasons for me not to write. Well, not to write all that much. The world of daily business of common people: working, studying for school, going to practice, preparing half-day English lessons, watching Breaking Bad, buying groceries, preparing science lessons, bitching about class, all the activities that almost take care of themselves in their quintessential everydayness. It seems like there is a pan-human muscle-memory for all these activities somewhere and anybody can pretty much log-into it at will. In other words: there has been no good reason at all for me not to write.
I think, or at least I think that I think, that one should write despite and in fact fired-up by the very tidings of the quotidian. Not so much as therapy or insensible confession but as a way of becoming more conscious. It is in the very act of writing, that is, of trivially putting my thinking in order by cogitating through one matter, then another, then yet another that I can position myself in relation to them. And it is by typing whatever the blue-barked flip I want about, for example the gigantic invisible space-station hovering above my city with whose commander I’ve been in frenetic contact, that I blast the superfluous and anyway imaginary boundaries of soi-disant “reality” and escape into the fantastic mindscapes inside me, between me and everybody else who gives an airborne sexual intercourse for fiction. Or in reading into those that have wrote fictionally before. I am not angry, no way blondey, I am calm as a doledrummed patch of Pacific. Fiction, how sweet a word.
What has happened in not writing regularly is what was to be expected: my life has dulled down, become much less colorful, like somebody had slowly dialed down the colors and resolution from plasma HD to run-o’-the-mill 80s tube. This growing paucity perhaps I could live with, the way certain people slowly come around to all the soul-crushing aspects of their job, a job they might not enjoy any longer but which keeps the bills paid, the family fed, the foreclosure at bay, a job one was all rah-rah about, oh dear, just two decades heretofore. Yes, perhaps I could somehow restore cognitive consonance for how lacking writing has lead to lacking vividness.
Worse, however, is how I myself have become much less well defined. Whether you’re a wolf or a hare, or just a regular homo [well, have a wild guess, sapiens, what else? Would it even matter?], I ask you to bear with me here as I liberally mix metaphors to give you an idea.
It is as though the outline of myself, where I verge on the real/society but remain discernible as distinct individual has become pixilated, certain pixels I just can’t tell if they are a part of me or if they are supposed to signify for the wider cosmos. In not writing as much as I should (three times per week, minimum), I have become an ideational fuzzball. Neither do I think as clear as I used to just a few fortnights ago, nor do I know quite as lucidly as before what to think of things anymore, how to think about them, how to advance from one inference to the next till I arrive at a conceptual construct that seems sensible [if not necessarily anywhere near empirically valid].
I haven’t been temporarily typing my perspectives/ideas/opinions into place and so now they just whirl all around me like the damn dead late November foliage, dried out and rustling and a shitey reminder of the blooming tree of knowledge. Bleep about blogs all you will, but they are one helluvan exophysical cognitive multiplier: you can raffle through old posts and get a lasikally precise imago of what type of a thinker/person you were a couple of months ago, what moods you were living through, just generally what was on your mind&body. …. – Now, I’m ill-defined, fuzz, a pixel pile, slime, the thing at the edge of your dreams, the intellectual equivalent of lint, human haze, whatever remains of a brainfart a few days on. I’ve indulged my somber, somehow nihilistic urge not to write on the thinnest of all pretexts: being busy. [“Busy” by the way, is written the way it was in one MED and pronounced the way it was in another. I find this fascinating, I mean, what the blood-clot happened?]
But there was not just the nugatory matter of “having other stuff to do”. Many times I can’t help thinking, and worse even, feeling that it is an outrage for me to add on to the stock of written matter. I get the sense that I am indulging in the insensible, indefensible pollution of the graphosphere. Yes, my symbolic effluvia might not be as toxic nor as monstrous nor as unforgivable nor as intelligence-insulting as the endless stream of printed feces that issues from the likes of 20 minuten, Blick am Abend, JK Rowlings, Tagi Online and the like, yet the sense remains that it is exceedingly difficult not to produce on the superfluous side. If there is said to be a flood of images inundating our globe today, then the galactic boomer of words [tweets, status updates, blogosphere, wikipedia, self-published books, actual books, free “news”papers, text messages] is certainly an exponentially vaster tide of information flooding our sensorium.
To juxtapose such vastly different media of writing is surely a more than questionable move on my part but even if I restrict this “galactic boomer of words” to the sub-sub-category of [self-determined] good literature, I still wind up with many enough tomes to construct a life-size replica of what hit Alexandria 365 A.D. In other words: there is more than enough reading matter, what in the devil’s name gives me the right to harass/distract potential readers with my incoherent ramblings? Will I be satisfied to be just a further polluter of the graphosphere or should I not rather occupy myself with re-distributional issues?
Anyway, slowly some cogency is coming back to me. To be very much continued, mes vieux.
¡ ∞ ∆