selva oscura (anonymousblack) wrote,
selva oscura
anonymousblack

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i remember when i could write like this

i could type faster. i could type longer. i could use more interesting, more diverse vocabulary. i could press lighter when i write with a pen. i could spend more time forming each word carefully. i could pay more attention to my grammar, to my stylistic choices, to the subtext the technical handling of my language might loan an otherwise engaging piece. if the yard work hasn't been finished, the neighbors aren't going to look beyond the cover, is what we're getting at. if you haven't made that psychological train wreck (let's not say "train wreck," okay, at least not for the foreseeable future, let's stick to mess, let's stick to bedlam, let's say--fight club, psychological fight club, of course the first rule of a psychological fight club

fight it off, bitch. just stop pounding that refrain. you aren't a yard swing with a pen, dragging that same line across the limestone with each pass, though they may look all the same they're really all different but what i'm getting at is: appearances matter, so if this all has the look of being the same then, on some level, they really are all the same, replicants, repetition, that same old phrase repeated in that same old phrase. beat it out. find the core of it. repeat the core in new and alarming ways.

have you considered the merit of learning these words in a few different languages? the nuances of another tongue might add a depth to that word you use all the time that you hadn't previously appreciated. because that word in another language has the context of another language, you might be led to discover a new wing of the museum. for instance: have i tried taking a phrase, a line of poetry, some paragraph i find pleasing into an online translator, translating it into french and japanese, and then translating those versions back into english, then taking the two pieces now returned to english and comparing them against the original, then writing a fourth and fifth piece describing the resulting spaces between the original and the re-translation as well as the one between the two separate translations, the french and the japanese?

i wonder why so many art exercises designed to inspire seem to involve the channeling and re-channeling of gibberish. you just find a bunch of incongruous material and use some mechanism to unify it, and then create something that represents that unification. perhaps it's a reflection of how we are in ordinary seasons inspired by such strange and disconnected matters, how inspiration really is a wispy thing, how the artistic process on the whole is one big raspberry to the idea of the scientific method, while being like it in a lot of other ways at the exact same time. art is like that. song is like that. writing is like that. little baby jesus is like that. oh the heavens the heavens oh scream out oh run naked run like you have something to run from

so find chaos and utilize a method to unify it then document the unification through your preferred medium. what is your preferred medium? perhaps you ought to change that up, too, just in these process stages, because something useful to you in your practiced medium might fall out of the juxtaposition but also sometimes it is necessary to just take a fucking brake. so screech to a halt, will you, and shake the mystical piñata and see what falls out. noise makers and chewing gum. peppermint sticks and ribbons. seashells and cardamom pods. cracked bits of painted wood from the stage of a since-gone performance space. riddled with gold and circumstance.

tonight i find it compelling to pair together words that have little to do with each other in regular time with the words "____ and circumstance." the lead word changes, the circumstance does not. the circumstances rarely change, for some of us at least, whatever we'd like our social networking sites to believe about us instead.

english into japanese into russian into mood lighting into the back of a stranger's head into an apple floating before the face into a ladder climbing up the side of the house to the bedroom window of the youngest daughter into the latter day saint of wronged women in homes for unwed mothers where the weddings all happen some time after the first child is born.

hear the wind blowing through it?

it's such a tremendous sorrow, hearing the wind pass through one's efforts.



Tags: writing about not writing, writing about writing, writing exercise
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