....to be unimportant, Thank you father Wittgenstein (Vick-tin-stein, Lick-tin-stein, beerstein). Growing up I was a major comic book/sci-fi swigging geek (I wore thick brown glasses that looked like old abandoned RCA television sets you'd find furbished at a retirement home somewhere, more than likely blaring Lawrence Welk reruns; you know...teal and flamingo colored suits, bad polka, ubiquitous bubbles?) and everynight during junior high I would progarm my own less dated television set to automatically snap off at 11:30 so I could sway my nocturnal thoughts against stellar intergalactic lull of the starship enterprise. Remember that lull? That static white noise that warbled in the background as beautiful spandex clad female vulcans would say "Captain" and press the silver-dash nipple orb and speak scientifically into it? "Hello Beverly Cursher--YOW!!!"
Anyway, since I vowed last week to blog before writing everyday and then, thinking about my mom's furrowed brow, looking into her shoes as she tells me at a family function involving cranberries and stuffing and superficially polite relative conversation that her son has monopolized his life obtusely bent over a smith-corona writing sentences that she herself would personally be embarrassed to have her Church friends peruse (and then pray for)....I backed off, which was a mistake. I've never journaled, or logged, blathered or blogged but I write long, tortuous novels and love writing more than I could possibly convey here. Every joy I've gleaned in the last four years has come from streaming down sentences...long, bulky, meaty fraught language that slowly dots its way across the contours of the white page; Paragraphs that look like little aerial shots of neighborhoods snapped from above...yes, writing is a joy and its a helluva life (the rejections, the amours, the occasional shot, the hubris, the academic pretense, the pedantic mien I used to wear like zippers on a 1980's Footloose jacket I now loathe....all this stuff)....
I came to one conclusion after reading my "gypsy" friends blog. Whereas Focoult (I think it was him, either him or Blanchot)said that 'He who knows not how to hide,know not how to love', I'd have to retort and say that the joy of living an aesthetic lifestyle; a life in the arts, is always one of opening yourself up--making yourself a little vulnerable. So here I am...maybe this personal-confession will carry over into my fictious renderings, but more so, the emphasis is always on the reader him/herself....As Joseph campbell would carp "have you been reborn? Have you died to the infantile creature you were and given birth to the mature?
So here goes, rather than rearranging deckchairs on the Titanic, I promise to be (almost) one-hundred percent completely honest with my daily rants (the margin of error, stemming from that I write fiction and love to entertain, so if I devise some crazy story involving a unicycle and a yak and pawn it off as fact, its simply for your amusement as well as mine...
I think I inadvetantly started two simultaneous blogs at once. This should be fun.
Time to motor (I need more caffeine) and the Wittgenstein quote ends but the possibility of every single thing show us something about the nature of the world...
No comments:
Post a Comment