Thursday, September 27, 2007

Man is a useless passion, went Sartre.  Buddhism amounts to much of the same.  Desire as a thing-in-itself, no end, just a constant pushing towards.  Striving, pulling, tugging, yanking- an essentially insatiable goading trickster. All this yearning for what?  The something elses out there, foraging tantalizing ITs.  Like a good salesman.  How much for snow this year, I'd like to ask. No slush. Just the white blanket sown into me.

The alternative lies in the deadening notion of standing still- contently, appreciatively, quietly; consolation in the fact that it could be worse.  It could be worse!

That saying always bristles my spine without fail.I often hate writing. Walking along that much-treaded road, battered with cliches,lugging along only to find walls upon walls within ready-made spillages spraying me stupid, tripping with its ease.And when it gets difficult, when rococo facades do open up clearings,it closes up again, just as the good going was getting started.Then the wait. For the next bout of lighting, which in my case,is literal enough. Woolf spoke of thinking of things in themselves.Sure, that works, but only until you trip onto yourself again -always there.
I haven’t mastered self-annihilation enough to ignore the mirror.Or my neighbor’s. Vintage scars. No cars.Brilliance brims on the afterthought..

2 comments:

Banno said...

Of late, I often loathe writing.

Anonymous said...

Ah, but it passes...there are many times when the paper is the only reliable refuge agent. I, for one, need a good mental scrub now and then.