(no subject)
I just killed an entry.
it was drivel.
I haven't done that in a while, finished the majority of a piece only to delete the entire thing. Two clicks and it's gone. Deleted forever. No possible way to re-create it exactly. What might have been 45 minutes of work (work, why am I working? I'm not supposed to be working on things that don't yield results- blogging this way yields absolutely no results) only to flush it. Disgusted at my own thought... which 45 minutes ago I was so fond of. Words which were spilling out, bubbling over, willing themselves into existence via my fidgety little fingers are suddenly inferior. Aimless. Garbage.
Words are only worth it when they're honest. How many dishonest words have I written this year? In precisely how many sentences have I sweetly lied to myself about myself? How do I shape my accounts of my thoughts in order to make them more palatable to myself, personally?
I am vigilant about framing for other people. I refuse to write for any specific audience, unless it is clearly addressed as such. (letters, open letters, dedications)
I've been clear and unapologetic about that.
But as we sit here, I am framing these sentences for the future self that might have to be subjected to them. I once explained that blogging was valuable because it reflects the spontaneous inspiration- momentary, unrevised moments captured the instant that they are felt...but that entry I just wrote (and erased) was for myself, for the way I think I might feel next week, or whenever I become suddenly curious about what I've been blogging exactly.
That might be a mistake.
I think these entries are maps for myself, written in some self-constructed code, for the things my passion is prone to. For the vulnerabilities I detect.
I composed a song recently. I was at a piano. I had a lot of free time. I got tired of playing sheet music. I let my eyes wander, I was distracted by the keys. Pianos, all musical instruments, are filled with mystery...a sort of intimidating power which I cannot locate in the construction of the object, nor can i replicate with my own biological instrument.
So I'm lost in the mystery of this piano, and I decide that I am going to solve it.
So I play. The simplest little thing. A, A, B, A, A, B, C, A. (not notes, sections)
No surprises in structure.
Timed, depending on how accurately I'm playing, it is 2 and a half minutes long.
This is not my first composition. Just my most honest.
Sudden impulse of the moment.
A map to things which are too delicate and unspeakable to withstand revision.
it was drivel.
I haven't done that in a while, finished the majority of a piece only to delete the entire thing. Two clicks and it's gone. Deleted forever. No possible way to re-create it exactly. What might have been 45 minutes of work (work, why am I working? I'm not supposed to be working on things that don't yield results- blogging this way yields absolutely no results) only to flush it. Disgusted at my own thought... which 45 minutes ago I was so fond of. Words which were spilling out, bubbling over, willing themselves into existence via my fidgety little fingers are suddenly inferior. Aimless. Garbage.
Words are only worth it when they're honest. How many dishonest words have I written this year? In precisely how many sentences have I sweetly lied to myself about myself? How do I shape my accounts of my thoughts in order to make them more palatable to myself, personally?
I am vigilant about framing for other people. I refuse to write for any specific audience, unless it is clearly addressed as such. (letters, open letters, dedications)
I've been clear and unapologetic about that.
But as we sit here, I am framing these sentences for the future self that might have to be subjected to them. I once explained that blogging was valuable because it reflects the spontaneous inspiration- momentary, unrevised moments captured the instant that they are felt...but that entry I just wrote (and erased) was for myself, for the way I think I might feel next week, or whenever I become suddenly curious about what I've been blogging exactly.
That might be a mistake.
I think these entries are maps for myself, written in some self-constructed code, for the things my passion is prone to. For the vulnerabilities I detect.
I composed a song recently. I was at a piano. I had a lot of free time. I got tired of playing sheet music. I let my eyes wander, I was distracted by the keys. Pianos, all musical instruments, are filled with mystery...a sort of intimidating power which I cannot locate in the construction of the object, nor can i replicate with my own biological instrument.
So I'm lost in the mystery of this piano, and I decide that I am going to solve it.
So I play. The simplest little thing. A, A, B, A, A, B, C, A. (not notes, sections)
No surprises in structure.
Timed, depending on how accurately I'm playing, it is 2 and a half minutes long.
This is not my first composition. Just my most honest.
Sudden impulse of the moment.
A map to things which are too delicate and unspeakable to withstand revision.