something to talk about
virginia woolfe has again encaptured my head like a hand closing around a helpless gnat. i've been snatched up into her lucid voice, and she's whispering to me through the words i hear in my head as i turn the pages, about what it means to be an artist and what it takes to be one as well. a room of one's own, for one, which incidentally is the title of the essay/speech/book. there must be freedom in the most physical sense. there must be allowed time and peace and quiet. there must be allowed the freedom of exploration. and most importantly, there must be the freedom from society and its views. too many writers (specifically) were known too well for who they were, what they stood for. too many interjected themselves into their creation, interjected their own feelings of rejection, injustice, intolerance. the creation must transcend the individual creator. the creation must be given its own freedom from the writer.
maybe it seemed like the easiest thing. maybe it didn't seem like the easiest thing should be the thing to do. i can't imagine why. but at one point, the writer gets away from what seems most important and instead focuses all energy on attacking out on every kind of perceived transgression and impediment from outside, no matter how minor. but the writer can, as a writer can, turn the slightest irritation into the most extravagant imposition. 'LET ME BE!!' the grizzlied haired writer would scream in grievious frustration at a rustling wind or a tick of a clock. 'Oh woe is me who now cannot finish up my creation, and all because of those dastardly distractions.' an anger burns and a pencil snaps and the mind now drives with a new focus.
as time wets the grass outside and dries the ink on the paper the creation waits in mid-stride with the patience of stone as the writer erodes, demanding the recognition and equality of those who have chosen the more common contributions to society. the creator, perhaps, should learn a lesson from the creation.
a lifetime of alcohol and depression comsume the writer over the next many years and the writer deploys every expression to describe all the ultimate questions. 'me' becomes 'why me.' 'this' becomes 'why this.' and 'yes!' becomes 'why yes?'
obeying the laws of life, the writer has made a mistake. but to the writer, as to a writer it would seem, life is over, and it has ended in failure. all the better for the writer, for life is not over, and now, to the writer, life has again begun, and how glorious. dust may now be blown off the half-conceived creation, and all that needs to be done will be done.
maybe it seemed like the easiest thing. maybe it didn't seem like the easiest thing should be the thing to do. i can't imagine why. but at one point, the writer gets away from what seems most important and instead focuses all energy on attacking out on every kind of perceived transgression and impediment from outside, no matter how minor. but the writer can, as a writer can, turn the slightest irritation into the most extravagant imposition. 'LET ME BE!!' the grizzlied haired writer would scream in grievious frustration at a rustling wind or a tick of a clock. 'Oh woe is me who now cannot finish up my creation, and all because of those dastardly distractions.' an anger burns and a pencil snaps and the mind now drives with a new focus.
as time wets the grass outside and dries the ink on the paper the creation waits in mid-stride with the patience of stone as the writer erodes, demanding the recognition and equality of those who have chosen the more common contributions to society. the creator, perhaps, should learn a lesson from the creation.
a lifetime of alcohol and depression comsume the writer over the next many years and the writer deploys every expression to describe all the ultimate questions. 'me' becomes 'why me.' 'this' becomes 'why this.' and 'yes!' becomes 'why yes?'
obeying the laws of life, the writer has made a mistake. but to the writer, as to a writer it would seem, life is over, and it has ended in failure. all the better for the writer, for life is not over, and now, to the writer, life has again begun, and how glorious. dust may now be blown off the half-conceived creation, and all that needs to be done will be done.
on a whim, chad was marco @ 12:56 AM
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