January 4, 2017 § 1 Comment
I’ve been trying, for a long time or maybe an entire time, to write in a way that is not too small and not so large that it engulfs all meaning. The personal must not be swept away now, not in the least. The last two years have been as brutal as any. But it’s gobbled up my brain. It depletes and depletes and depletes. What’s all around me is a part of who I am. I read viewpoint upon viewpoint. Some I set aside and return to and engage with in some way after it’s sunk in, some I must comment on immediately, some make me feel I’ve gone mad, some are purposely constructed to radiate sheer madness, most I can’t categorize, most overlap in some fashion. I read relentlessly, trying not to write at length until I feel I understand what is going on. But this is not exactly the thing to do: most of the reason I write anything in the first place is to make some sense of things and uncover new layers of meaning. But I often feel like this blog barely contains that purpose. The writing in it feels quite sealed off, even from me. I need stories and dialogue. I need to share my stuff that is more open and connectable.
My reading and rereading of Jeanette Winterson has been one of the greatest sources of strength I’ve found in all this madness. This is because her work is full of passion. It makes me want to be an alive person. When I think I cannot speak I keep returning to her and then I can. And I can feel everything I am then. It makes me want far more.
I like how her lines make these staccato beats. There’s a sense of urgency there. It doesn’t frighten you. It makes your heart beat faster. It propels you onward. She writes things that are in some ways so elegantly simple you’d forgotten to say them. She gathers all these sources, resources, and relays them to you entwined from the deep and far away.
Irony on the other hand can be vicious and this freaking distresses me.
That doesn’t actually make sense, of course, but it’s ironic! I can’t get one past myself.
I think about male and female counterparts, within the self. In ancient Egypt there is this concept called Maat: truth, harmony, balance: the feminine? The regulation of stars and seasons. This is something of interest to me, astrologically speaking, I guess (the Libra-harmony thing). Concepts get personified or is it goddified. Deified. Maat, then, is all wedded to Thoth: the masculine, the maintainer of the universe, why-look-my-head-is-a-baboon-head, whose counterpart is sometimes Maat and sometimes Seshat, the scribe. Seshat oversees the library, all the knowledge, all the spells (sidenote: I just marathoned the entire Librarians series over christmas weekend, what a trip. also, the librarians are after Apep. dude is chaos! supposed opponent). These three to me are the notches on a palm stem: the night, the day, and everything in between.
I do not know a lot about this.
Ra’s boat, a god on either side, masculine an instrument pitched high, feminine an instrument pitched low. Pitched apart and played simultaneously for a tremulous sound. When I was very young, I understood both within me, and felt secretly pleased and filled with desire. When I became older, I hid both, out of what seemed like a necessary protection, and I felt cold and alone. I had to be prepared, and it was a kind of hibernation.
Last year I got further in completing several stories than maybe I ever have. It’s okay that I didn’t entirely finish them because I don’t want them marred by a conclusion I might not agree with now. It’s taken quite some time to write anything that didn’t sputter incoherently and wasn’t plagued by pointless cruelty. I think it will keep taking all the time I’m alive. I think all the cruelty in the things has a point now. Not to write a check I cannot cash or anything but I think it’s true.