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just close your eyes, dear.
Mar. 25th, 2016 12:53 pmi neglect pages for nearly two months: i neglect pages for no justifiable reason. now, two months later, in the thick of jury duty, i flip two pages ahead in my primary paper journal without really making a strategy. two pages should be enough for february, i think. even my peculiar brand of vanity in documentation should be accepting of two front-to-back pages for february. what i'm saying is: the content exists, at least. hopefully by the time you read this, whoever you are, likely me, there will not be two blank pages for february, but two pages of handcrafted artisanal entries copied into place from another notebook or, most likely, livejournal. i seem to remember jury duty serving as a return to active journaling (in my active journal, even) once before. so perhaps history shall repeat.
there's so much illusion-making in personal writing. we pretend the things we write are: objective when they are subjective; subjective when they are insane; written in february when they were written march. we pretend to be well-researched and approaching the matter with some form of balance when actually we are livid, just hiding it well. we approach an important issue from an irrelevant angle. we shoot off on weird tangents, assuming that because we can speak with what looks, sounds, and tastes like authority, we possess any authority on the thing at all. even when, let's skip the suspense and just say: especially when we do not. at all. even remotely. we present snippets of dialogue as though they've got anything to do with reality. we present ourselves as righteous, blind with tears of justified outrage, when really we're laughing our asses off at the hopeless absurdity of it or maybe a cat on youtube.
i don't know. i used to think i knew. or i used to tell myself that knowing didn't matter so much: we do what we do to find out. we write our disingenuous dialog in between our greatly enhanced or outright fabricated details and think of it as "creative non-fiction." what does creative mean in this context? it means to create, as in: to construct, as in the truth of the matter exists only at the untouchable core, that which cannot be spoken, only illustrated, only navigated around, described through another medium and never once replicated under lab conditions. oh, do not litmus that text. it will not hold up under scrutiny. it will collapse into dust at the dawn's first light. why do i do this again?
because of a reality only occasionally understood by thrice-initiated mystics and certain types of writers: the truth cannot be spoken, but only spoken around. the truth cannot be gazed upon except in mirrors. we do not sketch the truth but block out the spaces around it, and as such at best have only the rough shape of the thing, not the details, not the comprehension, not even the name - simply the title, the coordinates, where it might possibly be, what's not supposed to be there more than what actually is.
crowley's book of the law is terrifying like that, but then it always was.
love, when we slip out of the body, i wrote, but disembodied love is another matter, or rather, not a matter at all, but a concept. a sort of substitute. a placeholder for what we want or what we should want or what we don't want to want, what we want in spite of our best interests, those dark desires that ultimately land us in courtrooms and hospitals, in in-hospitable climates, not sure what we're doing, never sure what we're doing, not a certainty in sight or memory, but still we persist. still i persist, i wrote, a kind of eulogy, a sort of epitaph, or just the kind of thing i've written before and will likely write again. everything and witchcraft, i wrote and wrote again. everything and that.
there's so much illusion-making in personal writing. we pretend the things we write are: objective when they are subjective; subjective when they are insane; written in february when they were written march. we pretend to be well-researched and approaching the matter with some form of balance when actually we are livid, just hiding it well. we approach an important issue from an irrelevant angle. we shoot off on weird tangents, assuming that because we can speak with what looks, sounds, and tastes like authority, we possess any authority on the thing at all. even when, let's skip the suspense and just say: especially when we do not. at all. even remotely. we present snippets of dialogue as though they've got anything to do with reality. we present ourselves as righteous, blind with tears of justified outrage, when really we're laughing our asses off at the hopeless absurdity of it or maybe a cat on youtube.
i don't know. i used to think i knew. or i used to tell myself that knowing didn't matter so much: we do what we do to find out. we write our disingenuous dialog in between our greatly enhanced or outright fabricated details and think of it as "creative non-fiction." what does creative mean in this context? it means to create, as in: to construct, as in the truth of the matter exists only at the untouchable core, that which cannot be spoken, only illustrated, only navigated around, described through another medium and never once replicated under lab conditions. oh, do not litmus that text. it will not hold up under scrutiny. it will collapse into dust at the dawn's first light. why do i do this again?
because of a reality only occasionally understood by thrice-initiated mystics and certain types of writers: the truth cannot be spoken, but only spoken around. the truth cannot be gazed upon except in mirrors. we do not sketch the truth but block out the spaces around it, and as such at best have only the rough shape of the thing, not the details, not the comprehension, not even the name - simply the title, the coordinates, where it might possibly be, what's not supposed to be there more than what actually is.
crowley's book of the law is terrifying like that, but then it always was.
love, when we slip out of the body, i wrote, but disembodied love is another matter, or rather, not a matter at all, but a concept. a sort of substitute. a placeholder for what we want or what we should want or what we don't want to want, what we want in spite of our best interests, those dark desires that ultimately land us in courtrooms and hospitals, in in-hospitable climates, not sure what we're doing, never sure what we're doing, not a certainty in sight or memory, but still we persist. still i persist, i wrote, a kind of eulogy, a sort of epitaph, or just the kind of thing i've written before and will likely write again. everything and witchcraft, i wrote and wrote again. everything and that.
