The ironic distance that is such a successful and well-recieved tool of the modern writer or memoirist is completely beyond me. I can get ironic, but I can't get the distance required to really hit the right and not sour note. I'm just too wrapped up in the existing, and I can't get outside of it. I know it's my tragic flaw, but I feel endeared to it nonetheless. Besides, it's just so au cuarant (sic?), that I can't get with it anyway. I mean, I have my reputation to protect.
You see now, how ugly and useless my attempts are.
So, anyway, on to other things.
There is a strange or maybe just a natural connection between the inner emotional state and the exhalating creative work. It's a quite clear and yet opaque pattern that relates the fragility of imagination in a way that can't really be expressed well or at all. It just means that when we try to sit down with our daemons or face up to the wilds or however we break creative, we must be attuned to that innerself from which the tonal ambiquities are resolved long before we ever breathe life onto the page or word or string or whatever. It's all in the rythm of the soul, and will not be successfully cheated or pretended.
A sometimes half-arsed record of the process of writing in its' variegated many forms.
- A reminiscence
- stylistics, bravery, tapioca
- It's beyond time
- I'm checking in, I'm checking out
- Self help book for the slightly inebriated
- detached irony
- Where it's at
- satiated and still not satisfied
- Editorializing for a cup of tea
- Choral structures, Coffee split, and other tidbits...
- Eddie the Grouch
- period of the zygote
- ▼ 02 (13)