On writing yet again, summer-writing as an idea, a conscience, not an act – the only awareness left standing
(just some thoughts and lack of paper, please ignore this)
I divide writers, I divide their writings, I laugh at anyone who would want to tell me those are separable; I draw the sharp repugnant line between the auroral wish for writing and the wintry necessity of expression. Between the shame brought on by the poet (as prosaic as his art may be) who does not kneel in front of the altar but lies on it, sweet and bare, and the shame brought on by alliance with those trying to sneak in, those whose flags are not tattered and whose mouths are self-sewn at the corners. Between the heavy as lead qualms of bearing the ‘writer’ mark on one’s wrist, the anguish of blocks of writers, of marble, of single chances, and the mere minutes that do not precede them, but come afterward; the mere minutes of squeezing one too many words on a piece of paper. It’s always a matter of rewriting, this one, and I’ve said it before and still do, always a matter of lovelettering. The last second of those few minutes drags on and on until we pour all of our hearts and loves into closing remarks, perhaps into a fancy signature of boldness, or maybe just as a futile attempt at staying nothing but an anonymous admirer.
Summer is perhaps the most poetic season, in its warm mysticism and empty pages. It’s writing turned onto itself, it’s self-knowledge without self-observance. It’s impulse, it’s openness, it’s healthy ideas that only make it onto the paper as the leaves start fading in colour. It’s the natural instinct of creation through act, not through the aforementioned conscience; it’s the end of teaching and learning and the start of ripening, the end of any roleplaying, the day of the noontime, of the grazing winds that blow through little burnt holes in notebooks. The running, the running of the true writer through the splashing of the river, on the slippery stones, on the damp, hot earth in all directions, his breath drawn, her eyes glistening. And then, then the aimless stray of the passive writer, also driven by desire, but an external one, the loss of identity, the un-writer, for one does not writer for self discovery, one does not write for fame, one does not write for the dreams of running on the damp earth.
but then who am I to speak of such things. I’m still waiting for a past summer.
I met a girl across the sea
Her hair as gold as gold can be
‘Are you a teacher of the heart?’
‘Yes, but not for thee.’