Giving thought to thought has long been a preoccupation of poets and philosophers. That is why poet Philip Whalen defined a poem as a “graph of mind moving.” In a sense, we are reading the results of a physical and metaphysical test of acuity and skill. So while the words may affirm life, or even denigrate it, they only have lordship of the moment in which they are written or typed. Next comes the action of interaction with them to see if they have clarity, merit and panache. Content is important but the manner of speaking is as important as the matter being spoken of. The voice of the writing is what individualizes it. There are moments when style becomes as meaningful as substance.
Alas, this is also a self-critical moment where you enter a no man’s land of scrutiny. Here the words belong to the act of reading them. Here is another reckoning. Writing can only be a partial reflection of character--even if you're a Zen Master who writes liberating haiku. Writing is property of all that had ever been said, sung or recited because we live in a commonwealth of thought and language. The words are no longer your’s outside a separate skill of quality control. You are a worker for the commonwealth of language and collective consciousness. The writing is telling you what is seen or done and requires judgment in terms of fulfillment of the intention of what is being written. In other words, it's about one's power of perception, even if it is composed of concepts and conceptions. But it is not an assessment of your whole person or worth.
This is where extraneous and magnifying dangers enter the picture: lack of self-confidence, fear of candor, a sense of non-originality. Here the words cannot help you other than remain uttered and to be grasped as a reader not writer. For some writers, there is no such duality. That doesn’t make then good or bad. I do suffer this duality. It is then, in my case, I try to become what I hope is a welcome stranger to myself—wise, witty, honest, knowledgeable, friendly, courteous, but also forthright.
The poet Louis Zukofsky said, "One can tell others to live even if they commit suicide." That is the existentialism of writing. It can't be caretaking for more than certain parts of you, open to the care that writing brings and gives. Despair results when we see disparity between our writing as care taking and our despair of failing not to take care or to be able to. The words can speak for the entirety of their moment; but I'm not sure they can speak for the entirety of our lives and should not lead to such a side judgment of one's worth. God knows, they try to, but I have often lapsed into the self-deprecation, hesitancy, hiding, failure and defeat Amy speaks of here after time spent writing. There is a vulnerability and defenselessness; a feeling you will be held to account for your account of things. This is where courage and joy come in; proving the words right by rising to the virtues they espouse. This vocation has nothing to do with art--except the ongoing development of an artistry of selfhood.
Amy, as always, your post made think. It’s painful how little in the way of writing does this for me anymore. You, however, get me there.
You inspire me to write with abandon - WTF am I waiting for? To control our thoughts is to cancel them. I’m tired of it. Keep going - you are really on to something.
Giving thought to thought has long been a preoccupation of poets and philosophers. That is why poet Philip Whalen defined a poem as a “graph of mind moving.” In a sense, we are reading the results of a physical and metaphysical test of acuity and skill. So while the words may affirm life, or even denigrate it, they only have lordship of the moment in which they are written or typed. Next comes the action of interaction with them to see if they have clarity, merit and panache. Content is important but the manner of speaking is as important as the matter being spoken of. The voice of the writing is what individualizes it. There are moments when style becomes as meaningful as substance.
Alas, this is also a self-critical moment where you enter a no man’s land of scrutiny. Here the words belong to the act of reading them. Here is another reckoning. Writing can only be a partial reflection of character--even if you're a Zen Master who writes liberating haiku. Writing is property of all that had ever been said, sung or recited because we live in a commonwealth of thought and language. The words are no longer your’s outside a separate skill of quality control. You are a worker for the commonwealth of language and collective consciousness. The writing is telling you what is seen or done and requires judgment in terms of fulfillment of the intention of what is being written. In other words, it's about one's power of perception, even if it is composed of concepts and conceptions. But it is not an assessment of your whole person or worth.
This is where extraneous and magnifying dangers enter the picture: lack of self-confidence, fear of candor, a sense of non-originality. Here the words cannot help you other than remain uttered and to be grasped as a reader not writer. For some writers, there is no such duality. That doesn’t make then good or bad. I do suffer this duality. It is then, in my case, I try to become what I hope is a welcome stranger to myself—wise, witty, honest, knowledgeable, friendly, courteous, but also forthright.
The poet Louis Zukofsky said, "One can tell others to live even if they commit suicide." That is the existentialism of writing. It can't be caretaking for more than certain parts of you, open to the care that writing brings and gives. Despair results when we see disparity between our writing as care taking and our despair of failing not to take care or to be able to. The words can speak for the entirety of their moment; but I'm not sure they can speak for the entirety of our lives and should not lead to such a side judgment of one's worth. God knows, they try to, but I have often lapsed into the self-deprecation, hesitancy, hiding, failure and defeat Amy speaks of here after time spent writing. There is a vulnerability and defenselessness; a feeling you will be held to account for your account of things. This is where courage and joy come in; proving the words right by rising to the virtues they espouse. This vocation has nothing to do with art--except the ongoing development of an artistry of selfhood.
Amy, as always, your post made think. It’s painful how little in the way of writing does this for me anymore. You, however, get me there.
You inspire me to write with abandon - WTF am I waiting for? To control our thoughts is to cancel them. I’m tired of it. Keep going - you are really on to something.
Love,
Your Birthday Twin