Thursday, March 18, 2010
"Literature always anticipates life."
I was retracing my thoughts trying to remember the perfect opening line I had been so momentarily proud of.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
the weather
I'm not referring to the Built to Spill song, though that is an excellent song I relish talking about whenever possible. I am talking literally, about the weather outside. It is gray and wet, unfriendly. I checked the weather report and there is no end in sight for this rain. Everybody in the New York area and probably a couple of its surrounding states will be overwhelmingly enveloped in this dreariness for the entirety of the foreseeable future. I kinda like it though. I find it motivates me to be creative. I am currently in the process of writing a nonfiction piece for one of my classes, something I definitely wouldn't be doing on a Saturday night were it not for the current meteorological situation. I've been alone in my apartment for a large portion of today, which has been nice. It has definitely made the connection between me and my thoughts more distinct. Also, the cats have been keeping me company/keeping my bed warm. I'm kinda in love with right now, actually. I'm lucky enough to be indulging in some contemplation and a legible expression of it.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Thanks, Davida
In my writing class today, our teacher passed out a little something Anais Nin wrote in response to the question "Why does one write?" I kinda loved what her answer was...
"Why one writes is a question I can answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me: the world of my parents, the world of Henry Miller, the world of Gonzalo, or the world of wars. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and re-create myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art. The artist is the only one who knows the world is a subjective creation, that there is a choice to be made, a selection of elements. It is a materialization, an incarnation of his inner world. Then he hopes to attract others into it, he hopes to impose this particular vision and share it with others. When the second stage is not reached, the brave artist continues nevertheless. The few moments of communion with the world are worth the pain, for it is a world for others, an inheritance for others, a gift to others, in the end. When you make a world tolerable for yourself you make a world tolerable for others.
We also write to heighten our own awareness of life, we write to lure and enchant and console others, we write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice, in the moment, and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth, we write to expand our world, when we feel strangled, constricted, lonely. We write as the birds sing. As the primitive dance their rituals. If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write. Because our culture has no use for any of that. When I don't write I feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in a prison. I feel I lose my fire, my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave. I call it breathing."
"Why one writes is a question I can answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me: the world of my parents, the world of Henry Miller, the world of Gonzalo, or the world of wars. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and re-create myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art. The artist is the only one who knows the world is a subjective creation, that there is a choice to be made, a selection of elements. It is a materialization, an incarnation of his inner world. Then he hopes to attract others into it, he hopes to impose this particular vision and share it with others. When the second stage is not reached, the brave artist continues nevertheless. The few moments of communion with the world are worth the pain, for it is a world for others, an inheritance for others, a gift to others, in the end. When you make a world tolerable for yourself you make a world tolerable for others.
We also write to heighten our own awareness of life, we write to lure and enchant and console others, we write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice, in the moment, and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth, we write to expand our world, when we feel strangled, constricted, lonely. We write as the birds sing. As the primitive dance their rituals. If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write. Because our culture has no use for any of that. When I don't write I feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in a prison. I feel I lose my fire, my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave. I call it breathing."
Monday, March 1, 2010
pointer, thieves
If I were to give any piece of advice to all of the money-hungry criminals out there, it would be to brush up on the faces of certain bravo reality show stars, particularly those who are deemed housewives, and even more particularly, Teresa Giudice. Homegirl walks around with g's upon g's in cash! Just sayin' ....
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