Writing: the Subjects
A lot can be read about what it takes, means, requires, or qualifies a person as a writer.
From “someone who inscribes a text,” (akin to walking or speaking), to publication and critical acclaim (akin to fame and riches).
As I see it
Uttering tends to search a subject, (what words are “about” is as various as the universe) and a style or voice (how it will inscribe).
From there it’s simply performance: arranging or placing the selected words in a medium with a measure of physicality, sense-ability, somewhere capable of being perceived.
As far as I can think it, when these few elements are satisfied what we are engaging is “writing” as a product of “writer.”
He chooses a form of English he has acquired through hunting and gathering, a language institutionalized and socially invested in him with measures both beyond and within his control.
He searches a subject to say. Already subjective (as he is the one searching with what language he has or is able to acquire or create) his utterance will always contain an “I” – both shaped and formed by his responses and politically constructed by his social milieu. In other words, there are always more than one “subject” in every utterance. At base, at least three: the language, the user, the construction and arrangement.
He’s already overwhelmed with the largeness of the simple subjects inescapable to human languaging, and he’d thought to write about rocks (geology) or time (epistemology); romance (psychology) or events (history; ontology).
Subject-fields are vast, you understand.
Having sought to describe an object (desk or stone) in space (again scientific theories / epistemology) each signal latent in language subjectivized: using language creates subjects, no objects remain but are subjectively engaged. Language is an invisible bridging, a liminal skin, connective absorbent tissue, subjectively creating subjects-in-relation.
This, apparently, its object.
Thus uttered…a story.
N Filbert 2012
Writing: the Blocks
“and everything here like an incomprehensible explanation”
There are those times of overwhelm. Edit? Create? Organize? Submit? Wander about (for “inspiration”)? or sit and stare (“meditation”)?
There are those times. So much written, nothing sold. Years of working, thinking, learning, feeling…orphaned. Turned away. Left out. Sent back.
Here’s the open field and some more ever-uncertain time. Feels fragile. I feel I should be making, arranging words toward unknown meanings or inferences, but I’m also drowning in them – so many of my own, millions of others as well. Approved words, theirs, successful words, words now “bound,” where mine (I try the positive) are “free,” “independent,” “loose”… not owned by any other hands or minds.
But the words seem to want it. They emit their own desires. For partners, for dances, for strolls. Attachment. They even like to work! Anything at all – they just want to be, active.
Mine aren’t. They jimmied their way around my emotions and spleen; infested every nook, cranny and fold of my brain; strained my throat and cramped my hand…but once I’d rid myself of them – sealed them between the bars of blue lines, they began to wither and starve. Atrophy. My words – these voiceless victims.
They’ve got plenty of company all lined up and folded together – hell, they’re stacked on top of each other…but they need human parts for life. Need eyes and mouths, lungs and ears, hands and minds, perceptors, receivers and nerves. I look down on them all like leaves from last winter, or hidden away in mausoleum-like drawers. I feel sorrow.
There are zillions of others – exactly the same as mine but for their order – speeding all over the world – through wires and lights – through voices, canals – held gently in hands – slick and shiny on mags – proclaimed on billboards and signs. But not mine. Not these innumerable identical versions but for my script, my experience, my faulty manipulation.
What gives at these moments, these gulag-ish terms of withholding and stasis?
A letter or email perhaps. A talk with my wife or my sons or my daughter. A glance at a spine or a page. Some music with lyrics. A friend. They are moving, alert. Every-ready for use. In use. Wording their function. My continued submissions might be jail-breaks for them. My blogs and my posts and my readings. The phone calls. We could try it? See how they still work?
Or even something like this. This query of what do they want? Working them into myself. Materializing them.
I don’t know. I don’t know if it helps. I can’t tell at this moment. They seem stuck. And yet not. Here they are, ever coming, ever becoming, nothing.
Like us. Maybe I’m stuck. Becoming nothing (inevitably) but becoming nonetheless, all the while.
I guess I’m suggesting that there’s really no such thing as stasis or block in living beings. Regardless what or who or how, we’re becoming (the 5 Ws all taken care of). Now & Here all five essential questions are active whether I write down answers or not. As long as we breathe. Work is going on.
And words, so eagerly activated.
N Filbert 2012
I’m back from my five minute, coffee-laden, brain-reprieve.
Thanks to Lotus Ohms for awarding me this badge/honor/advice?
It is an honor to be read, thought of, and chosen.
Award works like this:
Upon receipt of this award, you are to take a mental vacation for 5 minutes. (Gaze off into space, look out of the window, have yourself a wonderful daydream….)
When you have returned from you daydream, you are required to take another one tomorrow.
Lather, Rinse, Repeat.
Award this to 3 other people. You can only pass this award on to three (3) people.
And me own nominees for this self-loving reprieve include:
the Self Appointed Life Counselor at http://unwantedadvice.wordpress.com/
lots of thought and reading go into these blogs
(philosophizing can always use some aimless gazing for fuel)
some hefty poetry-writing happening there
You guys take five and refuel…dive in…do it again…dive in.
Thanks for working!
new ekphrastic attempt with Holly Suzanne at Combinatory Art in Motion:
-the near-unconsciousness of possible meanings -
Daydreaming and then, maybe, writing a poem about it. And that's my life.
Information hygiene for the Covid-19 infodemic
Caminante, no hay camino. Se hace camino al andar. Wayfarer, there is no way. You make a way as you go. (Antonio Machado)
all that inspires, shocks and makes me purr
Freyja Howls is a writer, performer and activist who would have been a style icon and comedian a century ago.
Dreams, thoughts, and experiences expressed through poetry and prose
Musings on poetry, language, perception, numbers, food, and anything else that slips through the cracks.