counted days
**** this blog is broken into two sections - the first being a rant of nothingness and the second being a rant of where i am... i guess... maybe...whatever that means
1.
honestly i'm not sure why i should write in this blog. i opened this blog up because of Josh's persistence that i should, i write a lot and this seemed (i'm sure in his mind) another form that wouldn't be obliterated overtime. paper being what it is. i mean typically i write in notebooks or journals to put down my thoughts, ideas, any type of prose. its personal. if you were to ask me to see what i have written i've matured enough to gladly allow you to read it. but here the asking does not exist and what i write or better yet what i have thought about writing is not personal. its more commentary and seems to necessitate articulation in a way in which makes it accessible and understood. this is in opposition to the free writing that i normally do. its disconnected, erratic, you may or may not have any idea what i'm writing about, and what you get i won't directly give you. much akin to experimental art - it always holds you at arms length. this is what i love about experimental prose/poetry or that which is avant-garde. it requires multiple reads and until you get comfortable and spend time with it you probably won't get anything out of it. like a relationship the time you give is the time you'll get back. the author writes for themselves and not for anyone else. i myself ascribe to this mentality often. this is why it's so personal. the first time you write something its honest to you. the more edits it receives the more honest it becomes for other people. In other words, editing has an audience in mind.
Roland Barthes writes about this very power struggle in The Death of the Author but he is more about form as being the creative force-the way a person's own individual writing style manipulates structure (language and style conventions) and how one must continually write in a different style because once you write a certain way then that becomes the conventional style. He was a structuralist and was of the mind set that to understand a narrative you would need to be able to break down language into a linguistic chain and see how each word linked to other words would be able to (in said narrative) reflect reality. Post-structuralism (a la Derrida's everything has already been done you can only do the same things in a different way) stated that that theory was hollow because it was reliant upon a set standard symbol (language/words in the text) which should and do reference things outside of themselves.
Point being with this huge aside on critical theory is that i'm trying to figure out how to write in this blog. disconnected / free form or straight direct easy to understand prose, edited or unedited, true or veiled feelings and emotions. i'm going to try to merge the two or not think about it too much. though thats exactly what i'm doing right now. thinking about it too much.
i like writing abstractly and this is why i don't mind people reading my writing. i love the symbolist, imagist, surrealists, postmodernist, language school, new york school, etc etc the list is too long all these movements which forced one to really delve into the work and not be one trick ponies per say. There is this great line by this poet named Jeff Clark- the poem is called Shiva Hive and is basically a philosophical conversation between two people. all it is is two people talking. thats it. thats the whole poem. there is this one great line-
"Desire is the study of distance and its an art few people cultivate."
i have always loved that line, because it rings so true to me. Desire is the study of distance. in all aspects. whether in terms of objects or people. distance can be literal or figurative i.e. in relationships there must always be that independence (a figurative distance) which keeps desire fresh or the literal distance between people. the object is to be able to maintain the distance and thus the desire constant. I believe writing should always have this distance.
a while back i was having a conversation with a friend of mine about this very principal and somehow we came upon the topic of being mysterious. My friend brought up Borges who wrote about it in one of his books (i fail to recall which). Borges said something along the lines that people have the tendency to give too much of themselves away when they meet people. they tell them everything- the what, when, where, how, why. this takes the mystery out of them and out of other people. he said if we limit what we say or more specifically if we chose what information to give people we can build in their minds who exactly we want to be. so instead of giving them everything and they formulate who we are, we reverse it and only give them certain things. we then could be whomever we wanted. [i think we were talking about it being easier to be whomever you wanted when you travel abroad where no one knows you as opposed to trying to become different (i.e. a better person) where everyone knows you and have preconceived notions of who you are. This idea spawned an hour long discussion on being better people and the allure of women who have the ability to make us feel as though everything we say is interesting and important- but thats a different conversation.] Point being is that this is another example of desire and the study of distance. mystery being distance. i guess i'm trying to figure out where to place this distance here, but one that maintains desire.
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2.
i have had a melancholic feeling since last week. a sadness really. not because things have been going wrong. just a sadness that welled up in me. on sunday i had an emotional breakdown of sorts. things became compounded. i'm not even sure why i'm writing about it here of all places. i'm trying to be honest i think or maybe i still need to talk about it even if its just to my computer screen.
i went to a wake on sunday. no one i knew. it was my 19 yr old sister's friend who passed away. it was an open casket wake. the worst kind in my opinion. he died of an overdose: sleeping pills and cough syrup. i think it was accidental. i imagine he maybe had too much to drink and wanted to sleep off a hangover or something like that. i doubt he meant to kill himself. though it seems nice to pass in that way to simply go into a deep sleep and not wake up. but as i sat there surround by his family and friends all of whom were so young. it irked me a bit that they (the young friends) were laughing and going on as this ghost of a person lay in the casket. someone they knew alive and probably laughed with and smiled with. it seemed as though they had already begun to forget him so easily. i remember thinking i hope i'm not forgotten by people i love. i couldn't understand how it seemed as though the gravity of the situation of what occurred did not cause them to think or appreciate something. there was a dead body lying in front of them. i couldn't help but think of my own death and how my days are counted, numbered, decided. and the totally arbitrariness of arguments, worries, and the awful waiting for when the time is right to do certain things or to say certain things. All of that seems like such a waste.
there are some days when all you want, not that you need, but that you want someone to say "i love you." not the act of showing love but simply saying the words 'i love you.' more the hearing it than anything. Later on in the night i was speaking with someone and wanting so badly to hear them say they loved me. i know they do. but that day i badly needed to hear it. i think lately i have been lacking that very thing. my family is not very affectionate, nor am i. we don't say "i love you" we don't really hug either. the thing is i know i'm loved by many people, by God, by my family, and friends but sometimes it just needs to be said. it wasn't said, instead we argued. i'm not sure what i expected. but pretty much after that i broke down emotionally- the sad ache in me, the wake, the wanting to be told i'm loved- for a couple of days i couldn't function right. anytime i thought on it i would break down in tears. however i have faith in God, which has helped me tremendously. in him i seek. in him i know i'm OK. though i wonder is it selfish to want to be told that you're loved? i feel as though its a selfish act. i wonder if its too much to ask of people. yet we have so little time here why waste it if we know. tell them you love them and love them wholly with disregard of time.
i like writing abstractly and this is why i don't mind people reading my writing. i love the symbolist, imagist, surrealists, postmodernist, language school, new york school, etc etc the list is too long all these movements which forced one to really delve into the work and not be one trick ponies per say. There is this great line by this poet named Jeff Clark- the poem is called Shiva Hive and is basically a philosophical conversation between two people. all it is is two people talking. thats it. thats the whole poem. there is this one great line-
"Desire is the study of distance and its an art few people cultivate."
i have always loved that line, because it rings so true to me. Desire is the study of distance. in all aspects. whether in terms of objects or people. distance can be literal or figurative i.e. in relationships there must always be that independence (a figurative distance) which keeps desire fresh or the literal distance between people. the object is to be able to maintain the distance and thus the desire constant. I believe writing should always have this distance.
a while back i was having a conversation with a friend of mine about this very principal and somehow we came upon the topic of being mysterious. My friend brought up Borges who wrote about it in one of his books (i fail to recall which). Borges said something along the lines that people have the tendency to give too much of themselves away when they meet people. they tell them everything- the what, when, where, how, why. this takes the mystery out of them and out of other people. he said if we limit what we say or more specifically if we chose what information to give people we can build in their minds who exactly we want to be. so instead of giving them everything and they formulate who we are, we reverse it and only give them certain things. we then could be whomever we wanted. [i think we were talking about it being easier to be whomever you wanted when you travel abroad where no one knows you as opposed to trying to become different (i.e. a better person) where everyone knows you and have preconceived notions of who you are. This idea spawned an hour long discussion on being better people and the allure of women who have the ability to make us feel as though everything we say is interesting and important- but thats a different conversation.] Point being is that this is another example of desire and the study of distance. mystery being distance. i guess i'm trying to figure out where to place this distance here, but one that maintains desire.
*******************************************************************************
2.
i have had a melancholic feeling since last week. a sadness really. not because things have been going wrong. just a sadness that welled up in me. on sunday i had an emotional breakdown of sorts. things became compounded. i'm not even sure why i'm writing about it here of all places. i'm trying to be honest i think or maybe i still need to talk about it even if its just to my computer screen.
i went to a wake on sunday. no one i knew. it was my 19 yr old sister's friend who passed away. it was an open casket wake. the worst kind in my opinion. he died of an overdose: sleeping pills and cough syrup. i think it was accidental. i imagine he maybe had too much to drink and wanted to sleep off a hangover or something like that. i doubt he meant to kill himself. though it seems nice to pass in that way to simply go into a deep sleep and not wake up. but as i sat there surround by his family and friends all of whom were so young. it irked me a bit that they (the young friends) were laughing and going on as this ghost of a person lay in the casket. someone they knew alive and probably laughed with and smiled with. it seemed as though they had already begun to forget him so easily. i remember thinking i hope i'm not forgotten by people i love. i couldn't understand how it seemed as though the gravity of the situation of what occurred did not cause them to think or appreciate something. there was a dead body lying in front of them. i couldn't help but think of my own death and how my days are counted, numbered, decided. and the totally arbitrariness of arguments, worries, and the awful waiting for when the time is right to do certain things or to say certain things. All of that seems like such a waste.
there are some days when all you want, not that you need, but that you want someone to say "i love you." not the act of showing love but simply saying the words 'i love you.' more the hearing it than anything. Later on in the night i was speaking with someone and wanting so badly to hear them say they loved me. i know they do. but that day i badly needed to hear it. i think lately i have been lacking that very thing. my family is not very affectionate, nor am i. we don't say "i love you" we don't really hug either. the thing is i know i'm loved by many people, by God, by my family, and friends but sometimes it just needs to be said. it wasn't said, instead we argued. i'm not sure what i expected. but pretty much after that i broke down emotionally- the sad ache in me, the wake, the wanting to be told i'm loved- for a couple of days i couldn't function right. anytime i thought on it i would break down in tears. however i have faith in God, which has helped me tremendously. in him i seek. in him i know i'm OK. though i wonder is it selfish to want to be told that you're loved? i feel as though its a selfish act. i wonder if its too much to ask of people. yet we have so little time here why waste it if we know. tell them you love them and love them wholly with disregard of time.
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