All entries for November 2005
November 22, 2005
November 19, 2005
The city was often obscured by a state of mind. The buildings given life, reluctantly by a jaded intelligence. It was just the right size and had the right level of incongruity for her to let herself believe that it unfurled itself in soley order for her to comprehend it. She found the vanity of this a cause for embarrassment. Fireworks especially had a strange affinity with her city, artificial fire which lit it in flashes and let it make sense, if only for a night.
Shut up in a first floor room, her thoughts swirled around her, an interior world projected onto its woodchipped walls. Her arrival had somehow awakened something of the frisson of childhood. That almost tangible sense of something beyond, indicative of a time when a mind is most able to project itself upon the world. Perhaps it had something to do with the orientation of the house and her room mirroring those where she spent the time when there almost was no time.
It felt so strange and yet exhilirating to think of recounting to another this inner world. She always had the urge to recede into the shadows with ambgiuity and an undertone of destruction. There was an urge to release this entity and leave herself bereft of the ability to control what it did from then on. It reminded her of having a helium balloon at the fair as a small child. She would always be advised to tie it tightly around a wrist but yet despite the inevitable scolding, she always longed to let go.
It only ever seemed an inadequate copy of the world she inhabited. A world which was altered and sqeezed into a form constructed from words. She was impelled to look at her own world with different eyes, divorced from those used to sustain herself. What was worth reporting from this particular mobile outpost, she could never be sure.
November 17, 2005
Writing as potential difference, voltage across two points. Bereft of the tension produced by longing, the spark which impels the stream of writing does not come.
You still have your loyal commitment to failiure of course. Not proper failiure truly- that would be too much of a success. No, you do your quiet almost-middle-class form of failiure. That withdrawing, absenting yourself from situations where you may have to prove yourself; exams, essays, creative endeavours. All this will be passed off as a fiction. You will not commit. That would make you vulnerable and would consist in that most vulgar of things- being sincere to yourself. Success also envoked that other most troubling spectre- closure. And the repeat performance.
There may not have been the couch and that particular silent other then, but that fear of endings and closure was ever present. The undammable tears at the end of The Snowman, such that the only option was for it to be shown on an eternal cycle of rewindings till your 5 year ild lids grew too heavy. The fear of the persistently held off possibility of the drill caused by my 8 year cavity-free run. And then there was the academic success. The growing conviction that this was all just an elaborate structure that was being erected for me to fall from. Potential difference rose not just in percentage points but across the synapses of an ever more disordered mind. So rather than fall, you jumped.
And how liberating it is finally, after they slowly put you back together, from within and without. Those fractured parts reformed into a whole, stronger for the marks of dissection it bears. The fall from the heights of perfection and a peculiar sort of idealism had a curious landing place. For your life then was all in your mind, a perfect non-entity, trivially true. You finally discovered that you may not be able to fail up there but then again you're also a blank page.