they're all right, by the why, there's not much "concern" writing
as a waiting game, for something astonishing to happen,
some impromptu - in the end writing has to become a "game"
of sorts, more like a chore - before something spectacular
can appear; a 6 week haitus doesn't help -
reading Knausgård doesn't help either...
i just want to give up writing altogether -
waste away drinking for a while -
why? to have "bothered" to read for 6 weeks straight:
without having written a single word -
well... everything becomes shit.... even this...
i highlight it would the mouse... press ctrl + c and then wait...
holding this text like an egg on a spoon in an idiotic
primary school race... wanting to see it become
recycling material in the fabric of a grand yawn of
the universe... or some other... grand focus point...
like... the omni- litany of the consciousness of god...
too much time spent reclining on a sofa of reading -
i've forgotten the iron maiden of the crouching crow pecking
of writing - i've learned to kill time - i've learned to:
encapsulate an hour by looking at the clock from time to time.
how can you hope, to find yourself, reimmersed in
writing - from the clarity of reading that borrow from
the spectacle of a river: to the intricacy of an ant colony
strand of: bothersome... language like water for 6 weeks...
and then language like rubble... my own.
this is more an experiment than anything...
rusty fingers, frigid (shouldn't there be a T in there?)
everything; they are right, though,
writing is never a waiting game - you don't "wait" to write...
you have to sharpen the iron, chop the wood,
you have to polish the shoes, you have to sculpt
the marble, you are never waiting for "inspiration",
or a "blitzkrieg" of an idea - sure, it sometimes happens:
it happens when you have crossed the muddy waters
on the tips of your fingers with, what eventually becomes,
diatribe... writing is not really an escape:
it's not even a purpose or a <pause>: writing is an imitation
of water - even thinking does not allow for such rhythm
and syncroni- ("dyslexia" moment) - synchronised -
synchronicity - fuck it - writing is imitation of water...
word in thought is imitation of air -
word in speech is imitation of fire -
word as earth - listening -
something passive but not quiet passive -
the shackles of the oblivious vacuum of the universe -
and this... this... the burden of the eerie fathom of
the wind. why did i bother reading Knausgård?
i haven't really read anything by a living author: to date...
i've only managed, like a crab, on the bottom of the ocean,
managed to sift through what came my way...
and all that has come my way, has been...
material of dead people... crab-necromancer...
to have to arrive at life, at giving a life-affirmation to
something dead and stale... either that or...
i've already covered Kierkegaard...
and the only edition of La recherche...
came in a gym-fanatic iron-pumping
-steroid brain meat-head 2 vol. edition -
but i needed something to compensate not having
reading any 'arry potter, any 50 shades,
game of thrones not watched,
and i guess this book was always going to be a given...
am i to critique it? not really...
my grandmother would read a harlequin romance
novel like she would breathe air -
i too wanted an existential novel -
a romance for the, "masculine affair" of life;
but there's still the need for introspection with re.
writing per se... am i to not write this,
to thus somehow skip to a Miroslav Halub poem
hey presto! and with a snap of the fingers?
i haven't used the english language for 6 weeks...
why do i even begin to wonder as to why
i feel so exhausted, so mollusk-like...
so: inconvenience for even the remote audience / performer
of my ego in the theatre of my own head and thought?
6 weeks without an ear or an eye that would
understand this language, somewhere - akin to "nowhere"
and the escapism associated with Heidegger's da-sein,
yes, there, but also "there" - and... SSSSSSSSS
squiggly muddles - thinking that never leaves the ground,
thinking that becomes entrenched and
dwarf-like...
this writing has to come out... too many ref. points
in a short amount of time - no, not some peacoking -
more like constipation:
but... either this... or some grand pseudo-maxim
and plenty of space on a piece of paper
that would deserve more of a tabloid-spew than
a grand awakening of emotion to later gesticulate
a shared interest in: the mystery of a teacup.
- this writing has to come out,
otherwise i can't imagine drinking -
or rather i can't imagine drinking per se -
6 weeks sober and not even a whiff of a need for
a drink - but now? falling asleep in england is
hardly an adventure - it requires alcohol -
and how many night have i spent wishing that alcohol
would not be required - not that alcohol = a polygraph
liquid - this is just required writing -
it's not... spec-tac-ular: it's not supposed to be...
it's supposed to make me feel idiotic about drinking...
i've already come half-way to the un-feeling of
stupidity when it comes to drinking...
it's jack daniels with pepsi max rather
than the famous grouse with ginger ale...
it's coming to Friday and i live on the periphery of London...
i feel inclined to get pissed and walk around London,
ride the tube and attempt to forget what my face
looks like... in a tsunami of "un-original" faces
of an atypical behemoth of an global city-state...
of course i could expand this writing into something
i would find worthwhile -
but i rather just find the rhythm of the spew before
i find the short-cuts and cul de sacs and...
those honest blitzkrieg moments of IDEA...
they are honest in that they do exist -
but they're not: waiting for inspiration -
inspiration is never worth waiting for -
a yawn is worth more when it comes to the medium
of waiting - when it comes to something being
excavated from waiting - yes... a yawn is more
sought than, inspiration... hell: give me pedantic punctuation
and we also have a deal...
but i need to write this out -
like i might have to have had to chopped wood -
did some mediocre chore -
and not out of spite - more out of a necessity of
having to, again, refine my attention to details -
details that can only exist in writing -
and never in speech, or thought -
come to think of it - before lines like:
Li Po was glass
Kant was glass (Holub) can become worthwhile
to pause - the pause will never give anything
more in the end: beside an irritation - complimented -
by an overtly sensitive bladder...
i do not even know when i will come across
something i might find appealing -
how many more of these lumberjack hacks
and impressions of cubism will come to the fore...
this barren scoop of beginnings and other -ings -
perhaps only something to satiate a voyeurism
without wanting to see something myself...
i hardly think this is required for anyone to see...
but it would be rather suffocating to hide it,
by hiding it i would "think" of it as having some value...
no, this is just your garden variety cauliflower and cheese...
this is something to compete for a compensation
of reading tabloid spew (alt. word for news) -
at least there's a chance for reaching for
an anathema for oneself -
at best this has only alleviated my present circumstance
with a shy disdain...
well... if it's not going to end with an anathema
for oneself: by oneself... i'll settle for a shy disdain...
because why the fuck, would i even,
consider, basking myself,
into the sort of hot-shit of megalomania that
becomes... exhausting?
all the negative connotations of perception have always
been less burdensome for me:
with regards to myself...
whatever the spectacular menu of self- pre-fixations
yields... self-belief, self-determination,
self-confidence... too much automation...
at least a shy disdain is not exhausting...
mediocre i can digest -
self-... the only self- prefix i can understand comes
in the form of: self-deprecating humor...
- this is my 1st attempt at escaping reading Knausgård...
it doesn't help that i'm reading it in
Polish... and that i don't remember the last time
i've spoken a full sentence to someone in English.