reflections

untitled, .littlegirlblue

i find myself a little ill. nothing major- sore throat, runny fever, the typical things. i cannot feign surprise, i haven't been eating much, sleeping regularly, and i walk for far too long in the cold afternoons not wanting to miss the tail-end of Autumn.

early in the morning i found the piano was giving me a headache... and the physicalness of it, the need to move, i found taxing. i spent the afternoon reading the Glass Menagerie, a work which i can summarize as: the saddest thing i've ever read. (ever). Several reasons contribute to this, as an older brother with a disabled sister- and who has played a significantly responsible role- perhaps it struck a chord it may not strike for others. In addition, i found myself internally bruised by these characters... trying, but alas drifting further and further off into an abyss of... i don't know what. (and that's what scares me) what's out there? what's the limit?

i suppose on account of illness or being momentarily dazzled (I am reading David Malouf's autobiography 12 Edmondstone St and can't breathe well because of... it.) i am straining to find poetry, or insight or... anything of value to write about. even the novel has been put on hold. i will tell you a funny thing about novels: i find it takes about 30 pages before i finally have it fixed in my head exactly what i want to write. As a consequence of this, the middle and ends of my texts are often fine, but the starts need to be re-written to suit the endings. Perhaps others can foresee exactly the course of their works, but for me... the style of writing, the various typographical devices i love so much, and the evolution of various symbols can't be totally foretold at the outset. It takes time for me to embody all the versions of myself i want to write about. in any case, i will say, that the chief 'instrument' for this tale is the simultaneous presence of Q, that is, a character in the present tense, and a whole assortment of past and future versions of protagonists, eg Q-at-16. Q-at-51, and so on. It is a device to try and mark the clear trajectories and movement of memory, fantasy, hope, allusion, experience, and the way these all relate to the present-tense (and to each other). I suppose at one point i will make the point of getting all the various time-frames lost amongst one another so a man can't distinguish himself from tomorrow or yesterweek (which, in reality, i often cannot).

there is something i have been meaning to write. it is to be called some words to console the sad. a notapoem i imagine. only... since i have decided it must be the most beautiful thing i've ever written, i am fearful of attempting it. also, i have no idea what it's about... other than some advice to myself... and to someone else, about how to... be us better. and how to blow our breaths on chairs and books and turn life into something worth... value.

my apologies for these recent posts containing no writing, other than writings and musings about writing. (which perhaps too few people are interested to read).

i want to talk also about being human. about being alive... about being something that exists... which confuses me in a way i can't quite word. it's not that i feel like i am not here... it's more, a little shock that i am. i have seen soo often in life dichotomies and schisms in meaning(s) and practice(s), that my experience of something so decidedly one-sided, so unwaveringly true, and obvious... bewildering. it makes me sad. like perhaps there was some sort of shadow-existence that is what non-existence is (like maybe being bodyless and floating) that perhaps i would excel at. like it were something i was missing out on. (of course, this is not true, there is no existence in nonexistence. there is no half-existence. something simply is, or is-not. And if it is-not, it simply ceases to have a voice in its head (which is roughly the best i can do to define my own existence: it has a voice in its head). Anyway. Nonexistence seems to me like it would be a very odd sensation- that of not being. and... that's the problem, it can't be felt. and since i am to last all eternity in one shape or another (being limited to an existence-only existence by my religious beliefs) it is something i'll never know.

which leads to the next existential perplexity: the kind, form, nature of the existence. why can i not be me? Why... can i not be all the other versions of myself i passed through to be here? or, completely novel versions of myself? with completely novel thinking patterns, better aptitude for certain things, greater courage, perhaps a slightly less haughty demeanor? why not? Why am i stifled by my constant temperment and selfness. I hate the way i write, which is so immediately, obviously me. You can tell, three paragraphs in Q is writing. This is because i soo thoroughly embody my own life... also it shows a not-quite-good grasp of language, communication, or expression. Joyce could write as whomever he wanted to be. Camus i think is the most exceptional at it. Every book is a new Camus. (Hemingway sucked. He's always Hemingway) Q is always q. the greater, smaller, equated forms... all the same. when i develop further, i'll still be me. and it takes soo much effort to derail myself from being me (which, btw, is something i've partially made up my mind to do). One midnight or another, a nausea finally convinced me that enough is enough. When i get like this, i try to break cracks into my exterior, and hope that new things rush into me, and hope that i can grasp at new kites and speak in new litanies and dissolve into sweeter puddles. none of this makes sense.

maybe it's the fever or something.

my grandfather told me he was hoping to die soon. i accidentally spoke out loud: lucky you. Morbid bunch my family is. really. not a single one of is particularly enthused, excited, or interested in the remainder of this one. Perhaps that's what happens with experience. Young men made old. haggard at 25. surprised only by books now. people always want to talk about the same things.

i am listening to Pan American, it is hypnotic. slow. strange. eerie. transcendental. i won't sleep much tonight.


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i want to end with something that made me (and i imagine will make all West-Wing fans) tremendously happy. it is a short script, written by Aaron Sorkin, depicting a fictional meet between Senator Obama, and the former President of the West-Wing United States, Jed Bartlet. i am not posting this as a starting point for any sort of political discussion, debate, or as demonstrating an affiliation to any of the parties. this, simply put: is not the medium for such a discussion. Now. That clause having been said: this is tonnes of fun, enjoy! (the best read of your life ever ever)