the other answer was: it depends.
nathalie, it turns out, wasn't terribly fond of those answers. I joined the creative writing faculty at bizan university and it turns out that she wasn't terribly fond of that activity, either.
she wanted other activities, maybe.
more refined? it depends.
we all have different tastes when it comes to education, whether it be higher or lower.
the difficult problem kept coming back, again and again, and it makes sense that we would start to look for a solution in earnest.
one of these solutions involved living out in a wilderness area, far away from other people, far away from the internet, grocery stores, cell phone towers, electric hook-ups, tv, etc.
but we really liked all these things and weren't quite ready to part with them!
even if this was the one solution that would probably work, we really liked these things and weren't quite ready to part with them!
one of the other potential solutions involved doctors, medicines, clinics, driving long distances, and selling almost all of our worldly possessions.
this wasn't very appealing either, but for totally different reasons, of course.
we were in a serious bind!
was almost starting to look like one of your classic lose-lose situations!
I left the creative writing faculty at bizan university because I couldn't keep my mind focused on the duties and people at hand. although they seemed to sorta like me on a personal level, most of my colleagues and students agreed that I probably wasn't tenure material. this wasn't easy to hear, believe it or not, even for someone like me who ostensibly values and cultivates "radical honesty." I quietly packed up my books and drove home around midnight, leaving the keys under the office door for whoever would be using it next.
I needed other activities, maybe.
less refined? it depends.
we all have different tastes when it comes to preferred reading material, and that's precisely the way that it should be- the folks at bizan had probably taught me everything that they could, and maybe the inverse was also true- who can finally say? as writers we are accustomed to groping around in the dark-
one of the other less likely but also potential solutions involved living in beijing for a couple of years. technically that's about as far from a wilderness area as one can possibly get, but for a person like me it represented a pretty serious move- the internet, grocery stores, cell phones, electricity, tv, etc- that would still all be available, of course. that and quite a bit more, it seems. a city of that size, age, and stature is a truly mythological creature, which will most likely end up enfolding one in so many layers of mystery that the person becomes virtually unrecognizable in a matter of weeks.
was I ready for that? was nathalie ready for that? were the other important people in my life ready for that? were the billions of strangers on earth ready for that? were they deeply concerned? were they attuned to the gifts and demands of this truly mystical dragon of pure opportunity? and if they weren't, was it my job to tip them all off in some way? was this why I had been asked to leave my post at bizan university?
heavy matters indeed, so I turn to the only voice I can trust in a situation like this:
unimaginable, unspeakable, that doesn’t matter, the attempt must be made, in the old stories incomprehensibly mine, to find his, it must be there somewhere, it must have been mine, before being his, I’ll recognize it, in the end I’ll recognize it, the story of the silence that he never left, that I should never have left, that I may never find again, that I may find again, then it will be he, it will be I, it will be the place, the silence, the end, the beginning, the beginning again, how can I say it, that’s all words, they’re all I have, and not many of them, the words fail, the voice fails, so be it, I know that well, it will be the silence, full of murmurs, distant cries, the usual silence, spent listening, spent waiting, waiting for the voice, the cries abate, like all cries, that is to say they stop, the murmurs cease, they give up, the voice begins again, it begins trying again, quick now before there is none left, no voice left, nothing left but the core of murmurs, distant cries, quick now and try again, with the words that remain, try what, I don’t know, I’ve forgotten, it doesn’t matter, I never knew, to have them carry me into my story, the words that remain, my old story, which I’ve forgotten, far from here, through the noise, through the door, into the silence, that must be it, it’s too late, perhaps it’s too late, perhaps they have, how would I know, in the silence you don’t know, perhaps it’s the door, perhaps I’m at the door, that would surprise me, perhaps it’s I, perhaps somewhere or other it was I, I can depart, all this time I’ve journeyed without knowing it, it’s I now at the door, what door, what’s a door doing here, it’s the last words, the true last, or it’s the murmurs, the murmurs are coming, I know that well, no, not even that, you talk of murmurs, distant cries, as long as you can talk, you talk of them before and you talk of them after, more lies, it will be the silence, the one that doesn’t last, spent listening, spent waiting, for it to be broken, for the voice to break it, perhaps there’s no other, I don’t know, it’s not worth having, that’s all I know, it’s not I, that’s all I know, it’s not mine, it’s the only one I ever had, that’s a lie, I must have had the other, the one that lasts, but it didn’t last, I don’t understand, that is to say it did, it still lasts, I’m still in it, I left myself behind in it, I’m waiting for me there, no, there you don’t wait, you don’t listen, I don’t know, perhaps it’s a dream, all a dream, that would surprise me, I’ll wake, in the silence, and never sleep again, it will be I, or dream, dream again, dream of a silence, a dream silence, full of murmurs, I don’t know, that’s all words, never wake, all words, there’s nothing else, you must go on, that’s all I know, they’re going to stop, I know that well, I can feel it, they’re going to abandon me, it will be the silence, for a moment, a good few moments, or it will be mine, the lasting one, that didn’t last, that still lasts, it will be I, you must go on, I can’t go on, you must go on, I’ll go on, you must say words, as long as there are any, until they find me, until they say me, strange pain, strange sin, you must go on, perhaps it’s done already, perhaps they have said me already, perhaps they have carried me to the threshold of my story, before the door that opens on my story, that would surprise me, if it opens, it will be I, it will be the silence, where I am, I don’t know, I’ll never know, in the silence you don’t know, you must go on, I can’t go on, I’ll go on.
(if you are already familiar with this line of thinking, go ahead and skip to the last few sentences of this post and you'll discover how I neatly tie everything up and move on. I'm not a teacher, not a student, not a writer or reader, not a part of nature but not entirely apart from it either.)
nature wants other activities, maybe.
less defined? it depends.
we all have different tastes when it comes to specificity in interpersonal language use. some of my students told me frankly that I was wasting both my time and theirs. they told me that I too needed to find a fortified bunker somewhere, like the guy in notes from the underground, which I introduced a few of them to.
did they enjoy it? depends. maybe not right away. he's a caustic fellow, that narrator. a sick man. an angry and desolate man. dostoevsky was deliberately presenting us with an almost unsolvable problem. he presents us with a character who has some truly fucked up activities. as we're reading, we get sucked in, and almost participate alongside him, against our will, in some cases- such is the mystery and terror of certain pieces of literature. an author of that size, age, and stature is a truly mythological creature, who will most likely end up enfolding one in so many layers of displaced/virtual/empathic reality that the reader becomes unrecognizable to self and others in a matter of pages.
did they enjoy it? depends. maybe not right away. he's a caustic fellow, that narrator. a sick man. an angry and desolate man. dostoevsky was deliberately presenting us with an almost unsolvable problem. he presents us with a character who has some truly fucked up activities. as we're reading, we get sucked in, and almost participate alongside him, against our will, in some cases- such is the mystery and terror of certain pieces of literature. an author of that size, age, and stature is a truly mythological creature, who will most likely end up enfolding one in so many layers of displaced/virtual/empathic reality that the reader becomes unrecognizable to self and others in a matter of pages.
oh well.
for what it's worth, I sold lemonade out in the front yard as a lad. I'm starting to get my resume in order again, and these are the sort of bizarre facts that sometimes come back to one in that precarious state- putting your whole life down on paper for a stranger to read and assess, and come to a decision in regards to your overall worth to, for, in and even in spite of the company.
one definition of the word "company" is simply this: other people. as in, I know other people. other people know me. I like other people. other people like me. other people often have a better sense of how to navigate the media landscape. other people are weary of always being told what to think, do, and feel. I watch other people from my studio window at night coming in and out of the grocery store, most of them talking to other people on some sort of handheld device.
that’s all words, they’re all I have, and not many of them, the words fail, the voice fails, so be it, I know that well, it will be the silence, full of murmurs, distant cries, the usual silence, spent listening, spent waiting, waiting for the voice, the cries abate, like all cries, that is to say they stop, the murmurs cease, they give up, the voice begins again, it begins trying again, quick now before there is none left, no voice left, nothing left but the core of murmurs, distant cries, quick now and try again, with the words that remain, try what, I don’t know, I’ve forgotten, it doesn’t matter, I never knew, to have them carry me into my next teaching position in china, the words that remain, my old story, which I’ve forgotten, far from here, through the noise, through the door, into the silence, that must be it, it’s too late, perhaps it’s too late, perhaps they have, how would I know, in the silence you don’t know, perhaps it’s the door, perhaps I’m at the door, that would surprise me, indeed, I thought I was out in the middle of nowhere- no internet, no tv, no electric hook-ups, etc- all this business one hears about getting "back to the land", "cultivating the spirit", "invoking the goddess", "slaying the inner dragon", etc. mythological? maybe. helpful? hard to say. it depends.
the unknown term: physicality
the blanket draped: lost identity.
is that a bad thing or a good thing?
what about globalization?
what if we stopped talking about it for a couple of minutes?
well, what else could we talk about?
the era before globalization...
is there anyone around here qualified to speak about that?
the unknown term: sexuality
the blanket lifts: new identity
wanted to meet with them but somehow was
unable to meet with them.
(alignment doesn't necessarily occur automatically)
the deep night; the inter-state.
(old people pal-ing around in an alleyway)
wanted to learn something important
but only learned something trivial.
the unknown term: reachability
the blanket rips: connectivity
(I wrote you a super weird poem and was simply
too confused to deliver it.)
creative writing, geology, demographics, media studies, art history-
bury me, timeless friend-
exchange these new clothes for ancient ones.
