Woven in the circles of making, I felt and I thought, I wrote (I thought) “What is called writing?”
An action, a process, a braiding of becoming.
In that way it is like breathing, sensing, walking.
I wouldn’t, for instance, “do it anyway” – wasn’t born with the instinct of muscle and nerve to be verbal, textual. I needed other people for that, and the whole history of the world, and the tiny stories of my community and location. All those things, all those “others” – elements and entities NOT me trained me to language. Taught me to “mean’ something with a sound or a gesture, out of an enormity of possible sounds and motions, infinite and miniscule in their variety. So that I utter and behave as a Kansas boy raised in the 1970s in the United States of America; I can say “what” about forty different ways, but not like someone from Tokyo, Moscow or Bangladesh.
Clearly I went along with it, became, developed my own versions of signification and cadence, intonation and grammar. Working well enough when among the great pool of English-speakers who read literature, philosophy, poetry or know something about parenting, divorces, theology or art.
Outside of that I suspect I’m a foreigner. A penguin squawking and waddling about.
Given the breathing, perceiving, pulsing, walking thing, I can usually find my way among other humans anywhere, but not without a strangeness and suspicious curiosity about the way I do it, and why.
Words written are things. Objects to collage, cut and paste, assemble/dissemble, rearrange.
That’s what I love to do. I like very much listening to their silences, their potential precision and fluid spillage and wash. I love finding shapes there and rhythms. After all, music isn’t about the melody, but all of its sounds and silences together. But writing isn’t music, it’s writing.
Stories aren’t histories, expressions or truths – they’re words. Lists aren’t tasks performed or groceries, notes aren’t emotions or commands – they’re words. A painting of a mountain isn’t a mountain. It’s a painting.
So my blog, my work, my play, my joy my grief my desire and delight is this puzzling and fiddling about with this (for all practical finite purposes and aptitude) infinite galaxy of lettered objects.
What it might “mean” or “say,” “express” “communicate” or “intend” and so on – I guess that’s up to you – making your own creative use of my arrangements from your very own culture of sounding signing and gesturing.
A happy medium, as far as I’m concerned.