Tuesday, April 21, 2009

I am rather slow this bright Tuesday morning. Let me amend that. I am rather slow most mornings, bright or otherwise. I don't think, in this age of tertiary services and endless typing on the computer, neither of which have anything to do with astronomical cycles or the extent of sunlight, that one should be compelled to keep pace with the Sun. The Sun can do its thing, I do mine.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

It is raining. As small drops form on the windowpane and the world looks awash in monochromes of possibility and daylight, she wanders into the living room and stares at her curtains. They look badly in need of a wash. The supermarket is across the road, but it is too much trouble to walk across the road and buy detergent. Material culture needs either maintenance or replacement. All of it requires effort.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

To hear, to listen, to speak? What does one do when called upon to be sans history, sans self, sans ideology?

Today, I am to be a blank slate.
Except that I do not know how to erase.

Today, I will be quiet instead.

Wednesday, April 08, 2009

Everyday Life

Writing, is hard. After six hundred posts, five years of graduate school, diaries of random thoughts, endless papers and not to mention, a mind that I do not remember in its pre-literate stage, I never thought I would say this. Writing, is very hard.

I put out words in the world. I do not know self outside of this writing process. I am my word.

What does this writing mean though? Why all the stuttering and whence all my bravado? Perhaps, for once, I am being forced to follow a word to the ends of the earth. To let it say what it can without stemming it at the cusp of my thought. I am being forced to enunciate.

And this I must do, because I know nothing else.

This is a personal note. One must decide for oneself what bears most merit in life.

The World of the Writer

The writer is a strange figure. Only when eulogized does he or she come into force. In the age of exposure that we live in, writers to many are not just the figures they create, the stories they spawn and the lives they bring into motion. They are also their own metacraft. Consequently, it is almost impossible to know a work without knowing its surrounding commentary. Has it been reviewed? Whose list is it on? Where does the author live? What does s/he do? How old is this mythical writer? What does s/he wear? Can we youtube an interview?

All this noise makes it difficult to "read" just a book. And perhaps equally difficult to write one.

What does it mean to write?

Writing, is also an act of faith. The faith that meaning will come through.

Wait, ignore the bit about faith.

Writing, is an act of letting go. I put a word out into the world. I do not know what it will mean. I meant it to mean something. It became something else. It flew away on wings not of my making. I did not know when I made it that I had given it the possibility of flight. Truth be told, I hadn't. But it flew away anyway.

I am the author. I wrote this piece. I wrote a piece about writing.


Thursday, April 02, 2009

Via 3quarksdaily and the New Yorker, this little snippet of a story about the philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein and his brother, the one-armed concert pianist Paul Wittgenstein...

One day, when Paul was practicing at one of the seven grand pianos in their winter home, the Palais Wittgenstein, he leaped up and shouted at his brother Ludwig in the room next door, “I cannot play when you are in the house, as I feel your skepticism seeping towards me from under the door!”