Another Front -- Sticky Letters
Beth talked about getting to an extroverted, workaholic mode where she worries that she'll never want to write or read again. I know what she's talking about, but ... .
It always sticks. The inclination to meddle and fuck in words. That sounds more hi-falutin' than it is at all. I have been in a similar spot, where I could give a fuck about writing/reading, so few others give a shit about it anyway, it has mostly lost its cultural value to computers and visuals, speed-paced entertainment.
But the draw to clarity of thought comes back. The draw to words that rebel and get together in unlikely pairings and split your mind open to the possibility of some new density of thought. The draw to something said so honestly that it feels like somebody just slipped a hand up your shirt without asking. The draw to a peacefulness that comes from being familiar with the pace of your own mind. The draw to a stroke of recognition in someone else's words -- or even better: the stroke of strangeness that makes you slit your eyes and mouth.
These words ain't getting me there, but they hold a finger out, point down an alley that matters, just some.
*
I'm reading critical essays on R. W. Emerson today. Can't wait to read the one by the commie-queer critic who committed suicide in the 50s (Matthiessen). He is connecting Thoreau, Emerson, and Whitman as "poets" but natural prose/essay-writers. I am fascinated by folks who do both. I do both. I wanna do both better.
My mind is cracking here. I'm supposed to be off the desk, taking a smoke break. Sorry for the no-sense-ness. I'm going to huff nicotine.
It always sticks. The inclination to meddle and fuck in words. That sounds more hi-falutin' than it is at all. I have been in a similar spot, where I could give a fuck about writing/reading, so few others give a shit about it anyway, it has mostly lost its cultural value to computers and visuals, speed-paced entertainment.
But the draw to clarity of thought comes back. The draw to words that rebel and get together in unlikely pairings and split your mind open to the possibility of some new density of thought. The draw to something said so honestly that it feels like somebody just slipped a hand up your shirt without asking. The draw to a peacefulness that comes from being familiar with the pace of your own mind. The draw to a stroke of recognition in someone else's words -- or even better: the stroke of strangeness that makes you slit your eyes and mouth.
These words ain't getting me there, but they hold a finger out, point down an alley that matters, just some.
*
I'm reading critical essays on R. W. Emerson today. Can't wait to read the one by the commie-queer critic who committed suicide in the 50s (Matthiessen). He is connecting Thoreau, Emerson, and Whitman as "poets" but natural prose/essay-writers. I am fascinated by folks who do both. I do both. I wanna do both better.
My mind is cracking here. I'm supposed to be off the desk, taking a smoke break. Sorry for the no-sense-ness. I'm going to huff nicotine.