I’ve been sort of swirling in a kind of malconfident funk of late…performing exercises and blatherings just to keep the language flowing…today felt like a threshold…one of those – “if the flow don’t show – i’m constipated” sorts of things… many of my favorite bloggers have been moving toward a very free and open bursting of expression/language/image this summer and it’s really been fueling me, but i haven’t been able to open my own valves for some reason. I want to say – wow – there are a bunch of really talented creative persons making stuff on WordPress – and the virtual company means more than I think (I think). So thanks to all of you for working so hard to MAKE and BECOME – it’s inspiring – believe me…and whether you knew it or not – today you all conspired to inject or confront me with the Archaic Torso of Apollo – a magnificent accomplishment – and Rilke’s “you must revise your life” – a fine firm foot to me arse…
And then things simply have to change. Some blogger posted (today) that “this is a little silly” and “let the world tell you what you need to do” – but the world hasn’t said anything, and still it made felt sense. Someone else (somewhere in the world) decided to go home for the very tawdry reasons that make anything profound, while another (clearly from another section of the globe) has been taken by the moon.
What does that tell you?
Things have got to change. It’s not working. You’re not working (but of course you are, (I am) which isn’t what I meant, what I mean being of very little effect).
There are the readings…
A friend did email to say ‘don’t give up’ from a far different location on the earth, but perhaps the “earth” is not the “world,” perhaps world is an elsewhere? Or simply a voice I cannot hear, something divine.
I keep calling myself “you” as if that might make me other, but even I know you can’t escape yourself.
So I don’t.
I spent my day designing characters. Jim could never lie because he didn’t believe in language (or was it people?). Leonhardt could always tell the difference but is unable to comprehend the same. An author left an erotic drawing on his desk upon his death, causing great anxiety for his biographer, utterly incapable of fitting it into his knowledge of said subject.
Those aren’t me. So something needs to change, you tell yourself. You’re lost in language, but the labyrinth is becoming a pattern.
You think it might just be the heat, a metaphorical dehydration, you read about a wife who tells her husband he should find someone else with whom to talk about nothing, and you heard echoes of the voices in your home. Like the world saying things that almost register but you simply can’t believe. It’s nothing, like that.
You challenged yourself this past year to ‘get personal’, if you wrote real near what hurts others might hurt too, and people like that – empathy, identity, a pingback from the world – but it never became interesting, the personal, you kept sounding like yourself.
And wrote these letters you called journals, out of some idea (I guess) that a world might be within you that could tell you what you need. Or like Laurie Sheck said (she’s really in the world); that “skin has no choice but to converse with the world” – but does yours listen?
I guess what I am saying is that today brought clouds and wind (a welcome change) and those were world, and I heard something.