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I want to imagine a language, the one I create when I write, that could mold the instant into shapes that are adequate for the intellect, soothing for the soul, loud to the ears of others, important for me. I lost the interest in myself, the only subject matter that enliven my attention, a number of years ago and this disregard destroyed the tools I used to create my experience. They were simple tools; memory, concentration, a certain ability to step back from the learned automatic reactions to situations and observe, as in a script perhaps, what other opportunities the present lent for ourselves. The tools were crafted through reading and somewhat reinforced by writing. I can't explain you the length of my disregard. I think of "the last thought I had" and it takes me back 3, 4, maybe even more years back. The last night I spend with myself, toying, in the most graceful sense of the word, with my ideas, my words, my feelings, my sense of personhood, lost in the repetition of the days passed.
There's obviously no one to point as the cause of this but me, and it feels so grotesquely sad, the strength of the feeling schizophrenically growing if not checked and contained. It's nonetheless appealing to that old self--buried as it is in layers of malaise--to find my new, simple self, capable of a creation so full of amorphous energy. It was Nietzsche who said that our best seasons were those in which we called our biggest flaws, our greatest strengths. Crumbs of a much simpler, yet truer, way to understand our own experiences, we can grow out of our flaws.
Large intermezzo about how flaws are computed based on a frame of reference, etc.
I want to imagine a language that says something, that poses questions that need and can and want to be answered. I want to talk and hear and listen and feel. I want to be human again. At the beginning there was language, said Peter, and despite the guilty feeling that we haven't shed such a sick mind frame, there's so much true on the saying; here is language, and I'm in language, and I'll be as long and as far and as present and alive as is that language that I imagine and that I write now. The option to be born again by typing some simple lines--perhaps too close to the appeasing effect of a prayer.
There's obviously no one to point as the cause of this but me, and it feels so grotesquely sad, the strength of the feeling schizophrenically growing if not checked and contained. It's nonetheless appealing to that old self--buried as it is in layers of malaise--to find my new, simple self, capable of a creation so full of amorphous energy. It was Nietzsche who said that our best seasons were those in which we called our biggest flaws, our greatest strengths. Crumbs of a much simpler, yet truer, way to understand our own experiences, we can grow out of our flaws.
Large intermezzo about how flaws are computed based on a frame of reference, etc.
I want to imagine a language that says something, that poses questions that need and can and want to be answered. I want to talk and hear and listen and feel. I want to be human again. At the beginning there was language, said Peter, and despite the guilty feeling that we haven't shed such a sick mind frame, there's so much true on the saying; here is language, and I'm in language, and I'll be as long and as far and as present and alive as is that language that I imagine and that I write now. The option to be born again by typing some simple lines--perhaps too close to the appeasing effect of a prayer.
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