No pictures today. In a way, I should call them postcards, and it’s not everytime that words have to sit meaningfully, so I don’t know what swerrt means and I hope if it means something, in the nature that urban dictionary tries to mean, that it will all be forgotten as oh, it was just one of those things. You know, I have felt like a lamp shade, all covered, I’ve been so filled that I could talk just about anything. It’s usually when one has a lot to say, that one cannot speak. It’s just like waiting for godot by Samuel Beckett, which I have finally read, where someone—a reviewer— mentioned that a good review of the book would be none at all. I feel like I have worn so many personalities so quietly as I immersed myself in the biographies of men who belonged to the 19th and early 20th centuries. I should not say they belong, belong there–not in the sense of I should put them there and keep them all shelved. No. Not in that sense at all.
To call this an existential excitement or… No, really, trust me, I think the statement is a total fail as well, but I have to use it anyway—the isms have completely gotten me. This week, I have been able to read through most of what I consider to be decent coverage on the topics of realism, naturalism, impressionalism, the decadent movement, the theatre, streams of consciousness, psychoanalytic plays, the philosophy of NIetzsche and Schopenhauer and influences on Thomas Mann. Its not that I planned to make this a show off of the acquisition of names, but I feel at this stage I can’t help it. It’s something to be able to know the majority of these works and to no longer want to skip them on a page. It’s now a pleasure to want to see how contemporaries related with each other, something like so Emile knew so and so? Wow, I wonder what that association must have been like and so on. I believe I’ve created another world, one which the present one feels alienated to.
There’s so much to say. There’s so much to say. Really, there is, but as I have already mentioned, it’s difficult to know where to start from when knowledge is bursting out, and you want to say all at once but can’t because that would be sacrificing coherence just to let it be known that one does indeed study, and that one does indeed know things.
I don’t know where we are going to as humanity. Literature is wonderful, but hasn’t it been wonderful a long time now? It is a way, for sure, a wonderful leveller and quite powerful. You know this already, but the journey has been long, the movement of the eras seems to have progressed with one foot forward, more backwards, like a swing, maybe. The currents carry us. I don’t know what I feel about writing anymore. I feel I cannot even explain and analyse properly the things that have influenced me these past days, or the things currently influencing me. But there is the question of how I should write, what I would write. I feel those things have changed. They must have. It feels different, even where the subject is elusive. I mean the subject it. I feel I could not write for many days and be happy, I could draw, I could sing, I could just read, I could just not care, I could tweet, I could do just about anything ornothing and still be happy. I don’t know what to call this level of quiet attainment or I should say quiet pursuit, but I feel I have found myself, or maybe I had found myself already and now I am knowing myself better. I must confess I think that I am my favorite company these days, I think I really am such an interesting person to spend time with and want to know more about myself.
I didn’t plan to write in an unconventional way, if at all this could be classified as such. I feel like saying bleh to all the rules. I must be conforming to a rule of comfort and well, this should be shelved under what it is to write selfishly, and maybe defiantly, since the word came up as a suggestion from my auto correct whatever. 🙂