Writing — beginning — to draw black out of white — to find, make sensible, and excitement, a vibration always-already within the sea of white ink. A return to the sea — a kind of world-earth-home: specifically one which many resist inhabiting. In the sea i cannot breathe; life and death rearranged. And so i am only nomad. Perhaps there is evolution, advancing, of advance in a future. These initial marks are a resource to be unleashed. As i write more-and-more, my lung capacity will increase: i will grow fins, scales, maybe even gills: all for dwelling.
Fear — writing must be terrifying, almost defined by terror? But fear? i am afraid … the words come out in spurts and sputters; can these gaps, the apartness of fear be heard on the page? The text to the eye is always “full” — though already crafted from black-and-white, interchange, never absence-presence. So: in rhythm? Writing is always of the ear, the voice. Spurts and sputters (i call them for now) — but not a resistance to discontinuity, fragmentation, the logic and rhythms of dreams. What rhythm is there is fearful writing? Perhaps it is (for now) enough to address an internal fear; do not worry about “expression” yet, as if it is some essential requirement of writing, to be observed. Perhaps then, the point of observing and overcoming fear is the same: in a looking at that abject thing, neither turning away nor toward, only to look, to smile; no lens, no mirror to see her face — it is already laughing, and as i continue, persistently, to look, a smile crosses my face; a smile of the schizophrenic walking down the street, the start of an aura.
Fear or what? — for tomorrow …
“As long as I have questions and no answers I’ll keep on writing. How do you start at the beginning, if things happen before they happen? If before the pre-prehistory there were already the apocalyptic monsters? If this story doesn’t exist now, it will. Thinking is an act. Feeling is a fact. Put the two together — I am the one writing what I am writing.” — C.L.
