Writing

15.4.10

In the same way by writing and continuously writing the words seem to jumble and interact and gradually I deliver them in an order where they begin to write themselves. Otherwise, with some specific tasks set out or – in particular to write something I do not believe in- my writing goes to pieces- literally- it no longer coheres. The deficit is put on my shoulders- or in my hands which become unstable and unable to grasp a pen or write complete figures, and the context or environment is occluded, exempted of blame. I forget because the writing no longer comes form a deeper pattern. The environmental scaffolding falls away. I suffer then from dizziness because the wording is not coming out of a sounding, a gesture that creates a sticking point for yet more words, more soundings. In the gap of hesitancy where I dissolve from a body placed in every aspect, I fall in the gap between buildings. Until the idea- the belief re-emerges and the flow carries the words that settle then into their own continuous perplexity. This questioning is language. It’s how words get to know their place and wonder what it feels like to be somewhere else instead. There is the breadth of time- the holding space in order to play around and let the argumentation and jostling get going rather than holding everything in place as a should- be or as something to be discounted. In that contingency there is room to notice where and when something feels right and where it feels wrong- to savor the gap that is the very pulse of the words, the sound-form that they make in the mouth. The juicings in adjunctions and abbreviations that bombard the palate. Passages felt out in the journey. That is how the whole thing gets going and the writing then occurs in the only way it can do. One is on the crest of the beat and it moves things on into variance and sense of rightness within a wider and necessary disturbance in the interplay of light and dark- with one thing and another and their being permanently entwined. It is this play of difference that keeps up the interest- fires wide open the idea whilst rooting it all the same to a consistency- making each twitch play into a tumult of centered affects- to further it- to make something of hesitant beginnings so that it unrolls pressed towards and against what it has been a moment before.

I write because it is one more placement in thinking- part and parcel of a continuous doing. I write to survive. To be able to move and think and hold many things together without closing down one in choice above another. I write to stay fair to myself and others because otherwise my perception and the inevitable slant into one emphasis or another, would close down the environment- stamp out a space in which to operate- put me on a precipe where all movement became too much to bare. I write as a displacement that opens up the way back through by re-inventing a necessary journey far from a place of absolute resolution- that can never know or rest easy in a single rule-book. I write to further things on. To keep them open. To mark a moment whilst leaving it where it was first set down.