continually oscillating. i have been rereading the portions that i have been writing in my long ass epic "kappa noodle..." it's becoming a long ass epic, because the narrative keeps splitting and dividing, and i keep having to think up new characters, new motivations, etc., and then ponder how everything will fit together again. humpty dumpty and all that. we break the egg to make things interesting, but then we have to always figure out how everything fit together. it is the logical/rational, coming up against the irrational/true. i don't know how people do it. i admire narratives that are simple and raw and true... but what i write is never that. my writing tends to be mimetic, tends to be metaphorical, tends to garner its strength (if any) from the subtle (?) repetition of images or ideas, all in different forms, all slightly out of sync. if the reader doesn't struggle to put it together, and only focuses on the moment at hand, then it becomes, i guess, this tiresome piece... the trick i think is to make each moment compelling in its own right, while speaking on something larger... it's always this chameleon-eye struggle (chameleons have the ability to have truly bifocal vision, in the sense that one eye can focus on one area, while the other focuses on something completely different). to hold two things in one's consciousness at one time. this is either a recipe for attention deficiency... or it is the path to expanded (broken) consciousness...
at the moment, again... i'm thinking that my writing is becoming too pedantic.
when i listen to mamet, he speaks of actors, and how they can be prophetic. and the truly prophetic ("art") actors are those that have no technique to speak of, but are conduits for something great, and greater than themselves... i would like to think that he is also speaking of writers. but i don't know... at least with an actor, the endpoints of the span over infinite are defined, in some sense, by the writer... it is just the job ("just the job") of the actor to physically throw him/herself across that span, that infinite gap. writing, in this sense, then, is more like engineering. meaning planning. thinking. things only work if they are planned. and therein lies the crux. i hate planning. i would rather have some moment, luminous in its sensuality of its passion or its feeling, and just let it flow. but that moment needs a context, and that moment only arises out of a situation, and finds itself only on the continuum of some plotline. in other words, the "thinking." the inescapable thinking...
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well... i'm thinking of approaching the next 4 page segment (because i have, in my routine, been writing about 4 pages into my play each time)... more as a freewriting exercise. more as an exercise similar to the writing workshop i participated in... namely: begin with a prompt, and just let everything flow from there. be possessed by the spirit. don't censor. it's irresponsible work. but maybe it leads to the unforeseen. and even better, the true...
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okay. so i also have news regarding my brother. i'm not going to report it here. but there's a funny thing about my brother. i mentioned it in my writing class via this line that would never be spoken by a seven year old, but which is nevertheless true: "he decides the world." currently, i couldn't care less about him; i have hardened my heart to him. but if he were to suddenly approach me with a need, or whatever, i would be there for him. it's frustrating. it makes me feel like some sort of "door." i swing open, i swing closed. but i have no fixed stance. i don't "stand for anything." that makes me both "forgiving" and "open" as well as, to some eyes, a "pushover." i hate that. i don't know why i hate that so much. i guess i have this idea that the world misunderstands me. so in that sense i hate the world. i hate the way that it can look at two people and completely misjudge them. that it can look at my brother as some squeaky clean, compassionate guy. and that it can look at my sister and see a lying nothing. and look at me and think of me as "weak." i hate that about the world. not that it makes any difference anyway. i just wish... it were possible for truth to be revealed. but i guess that's like god and revelations, and shit like that. we wait for end times, but they'll never come... at least not on our schedule, and not within our reckoning...
i suppose it's just like these stupid stories that swim in my head. most of the people that i'd most like to hear or read them, well, they're gone, or they're disappearing. all the judges you wanted to prove yourself too... well, they up and die. and if there's no one left to impress, then what are you left with? are you still going to do it? what's the point then?
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