And finally I have the time to write again... it's been a hellish couple of months, but that's not what's on my mind right now. Looking forwards, and what in 2 days I'll be 24. 3 years after expectations. 3 years after the initial scheme. I've been foolish to think that others could replace it, that things could just become as what I've heard told or retold, not what I'd lated down for myself all those years ago.
The writing is coming, but I've been afraid again, keeping it all in for the right words to flow out. The right voice, the right sound, the right words. And it is coming, like drops out of a faucet, a drip and a drip at a time. But do I have all that to wait, for the little pool to become something on its own. A little collection of words so right for what I need?
Sometimes, when I'm dead drunk or just feel like starting up at something (you can't see the stars in a city like Bangkok) I lie on the tile floor of my bathroom along the gecko and rat shit and stare up at the cracking ceiling, looking for random patterns that might assemble themselves into something, listening to the rats. I like living in this house, my grandpa's house. I've got to admit that condos are more convenient, I'll give it that, but I can't help but think of grandpa in almost everything I see here. He's cobbled most of it together from bits and pieces, like he does with everything. Plastic pipe canes, industrial sinks for basins, cement ponds to block out the water, lamps that never match, sockets that don't work, and a thousand tools mounted on rotting wood and empty cans with the nails still sticking out. He cobbled together something for his children too, while not having an real significant degrees himself my uncles are all lawyers or doctors, and none are or had to be that damn poor to own pieces of plywood tools, or build their own fans, lamps and tables. And all of a sudden I'm back to being 7 years old, building tables with him in the backyard. The tables we still have at our house. With the pieces of scrap wood left I built myself a box car. I remember hammering tails in the side, and sticking in cans in the bottom. I remember getting into it for the first time and seeing all the jagged nails sticking out which I didn't bother to hammer down cause I was so excited to just be in it, even when at that age I knew it would never move. I'd made something, and I didn't really care that it was just a weird box. Grandpa could've probably made me a box chariot, but he just let me keep it that way working on it until I cut myself with the saw, and perhaps that was all for the best.
Now if I could learn to write like that again, like I built the boxcar, like grandpa does with building whatever he had at hand. Despite the mismatch, or maybe because of the mismatch, I can learn to love the wrong words for everything. Like PVC pipe hand canes, plastic bottle lap shades, and aluminium plate clocks.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Monday, August 23, 2010
This pressure
This pressure. It won't let up. It can't let up until I do something, something important. I write because I can't keep away. A voice keeps nagging me to keep on doing this, to never give up on what I have to say. The censors hanging above always, the ignorance hanging above always. The imago of Thailand in the minds of the rest of the world. We're marketed as an alternative to porn. For the price of a porno mag in the United States you could get a fresh body here, trapped and ignorant.
The cultural project of the SEA isn't what is happening for the people who would be publishing them. What would a young, modern person do with that? What fantasy is this that I'm reading, that has nothing to do with my life. Another preaching tale, and the right, the authority to tell them, to hand them down like gospel. The young, the old, the imaginary pictures of the perfect country side on television and movies. Occasionally they would point at some city offical, but never in name, never in what's really going on. In fact, it's hard to know what's going on when the truth isn't valued, is protected all in all by threats, when whatever you write isn't held up to any kind of accountability, when government officals, teachers, civil servants are never accountable to what they give because to challenge them would be death, censorship, or jail.
How can you truly write, with this hypocritical bubble floating around your head? It's floating around like a giant cloud of pollution, acid rain killing everything.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Speed Writing
I just suddenly realized that the greatest problems came from going too slow. I've set out to write three novels this year, when I should have aimed higher. I just aimed too low, with the speed that I can do. I am going too slow, and that's why I'm bored.
I went outside tonight to the street-lamp lit space underneath the bridge. The place they moved the sorry excuse for a park that they leveled for a show space across the street. Now it double as basketball court, tra-kaw court, a place to dump gym equipment, and do some aerobics sometimes, but they moved that behind my house with the children playground. The orange blow of street light, and me alone in the darkness with a box-cutter. I just watch the cars go by, and then wait for myself to catch up in this place where its quiet.
It's then that I notice that I'm going at a certain speed. A speed that's not quite right for how fast I need to go. Writing is like that sometimes. I've been surprised how much more writing I'm doing now that I have a faster keyboard. On the slower keyboard, writing was a pain unless I'm doing the kind of writing that requires slow thinking. I can still change and hook that thing up if I need to, coffee stains and all, but I prefer this.
I prefer having something that might just be fast enough to catch my thoughts as I abuse it all over.
So now what am I shooting for? Of my high speed education, I'm achieving the workout schedule. No problem, and I'm about a month or two away to lifting my own body weight. Reading books I'm averaging about 3-5 books a week, and I'm blaming that on the World Cup, but I also know can be faster. On the writing well, it's only been when inspiration strikes that I can write with any sort of enthusiasm. Now it's gotten to me; I don't really need that right now to write all the same. I need speed, and not that much precision. I need to keep clubbing the damn muse until it's all soft and I can apply it evenly on the canvas. I just gotta keep writing at a certain speed because my mind just works that way. In editing comes what people call a genius, and I'm no good at that. I'm just the curious guy trying to understand how this all works. So I'm going to speed write a couple of things this week, and now I'm going to aim say, for a novella in 2 weeks, and perhaps a novel a month.
Ambitious, yes? It's only the fear holding you back.
Something for those who know: Sometimes you sleep just because you're afraid of staying awake...
I went outside tonight to the street-lamp lit space underneath the bridge. The place they moved the sorry excuse for a park that they leveled for a show space across the street. Now it double as basketball court, tra-kaw court, a place to dump gym equipment, and do some aerobics sometimes, but they moved that behind my house with the children playground. The orange blow of street light, and me alone in the darkness with a box-cutter. I just watch the cars go by, and then wait for myself to catch up in this place where its quiet.
It's then that I notice that I'm going at a certain speed. A speed that's not quite right for how fast I need to go. Writing is like that sometimes. I've been surprised how much more writing I'm doing now that I have a faster keyboard. On the slower keyboard, writing was a pain unless I'm doing the kind of writing that requires slow thinking. I can still change and hook that thing up if I need to, coffee stains and all, but I prefer this.
I prefer having something that might just be fast enough to catch my thoughts as I abuse it all over.
So now what am I shooting for? Of my high speed education, I'm achieving the workout schedule. No problem, and I'm about a month or two away to lifting my own body weight. Reading books I'm averaging about 3-5 books a week, and I'm blaming that on the World Cup, but I also know can be faster. On the writing well, it's only been when inspiration strikes that I can write with any sort of enthusiasm. Now it's gotten to me; I don't really need that right now to write all the same. I need speed, and not that much precision. I need to keep clubbing the damn muse until it's all soft and I can apply it evenly on the canvas. I just gotta keep writing at a certain speed because my mind just works that way. In editing comes what people call a genius, and I'm no good at that. I'm just the curious guy trying to understand how this all works. So I'm going to speed write a couple of things this week, and now I'm going to aim say, for a novella in 2 weeks, and perhaps a novel a month.
Ambitious, yes? It's only the fear holding you back.
Something for those who know: Sometimes you sleep just because you're afraid of staying awake...
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Type of Artist I Want to Be
Been digging around my hard drive looking for another piece when I found this. The document said it was written on April the 20th of this year. :D
I wish to join in the ranks of great artists whose work expressed their unique individuality, their burning core of creation. Human beings who accepted their authentic vision of beauty come what may. Ruin, or late acclaim or even madness might follow, but I know this; that the voice that compels me to write, compels me to speak, my mind's eye that sees the visions of worlds unknown, those are mine and mine alone. Worlds of beauty and horror to visit and terrify every night, and day dreams that are more real to me than anything I could ever share with anyone. They are mine and mine alone, and the trill of their exploration, the trill of crafting them into words, pictures, voices, thoughts cannot be shared. They cannot be repeated. The ranks are few, and far between, diaries come close, but not always. There's that filter in between the writers and the reader, and the less of that coming the closer I get to my core.
I will write something to make one awaken instead of fall asleep. And see the day for once. To write another novel, another piece where the reader could close the story, feeling happy and fulfilled inside for having witness another perform the task that one essentially understood to be theirs to do. No I seek to jar those with half and eye open to fully witness, to stare upon the fire here, the shadow puppets, and see the light if you dare for yourself.
A sense of life...
Each moment becomes a moment to dream. Where I belong, my own oblivion. I need no one now, can have no one.
This training, this craftsmanship aids in the communication of it, but the beauty of the inner space of the creator is something only he can work on himself. It is the boat from within to without, the link, the communication, but it will not replace a void, a cheap imitator, or a dishonest hack. Those who spend their time singing others song be weary of forgetting your own. When the voice can no longer tell its own from the others, when its vessel would mold itself completely in idol worship of another, then creation is abandoned for ritual, a performance of something past and done.
Creation is active. I must know what I think. I must do what is rare to achieve what is rarer. The truth cannot set you free if you never speak it, or speak it without honesty.
And if the blood falls in between my fingers, to disfigure either of us, I know that it is only an eye on the world that it ever was. You could learn to love a monster. But you must learn to love whatever it is you do first.
Small platitudes. Performance is the order of the day, achieving a sort of 'realism'. It's always a realism never real. A world where you're taught to smile in politeness, smile to hide anger, smile in the face of death, to smile when you don't feel like it so others won't be upset, to smile instead of yawn, to smile at our own ignorance. What then does a smile actually look like? We're taught to act, but not to be. We're told to be free, but never shown. We're made to fear, and feel ashamed when we are.
This utter lie the swallowing of that I weep for. Tricked, lied, and rewarded to act and not cognizant of their hollowness, I see the void that children become. It's ever sad, and constantly said. Children learn ever so well. To learn instead of to grow. At last we are here a spoon fed society. Unable to grow, but constantly willing to learn, to adapt. Unable to live, but fearful of death.
In another life I might have been a serial killer, if I taught others worth killing. Now I wait for my moment, scheming, hoping.
Learning has robbed away the spirits of men. Where the majority subjugate themselves to rules never questioned. Marching in lock step towards individual dreams on hollow grounds. So lost, so trapped, and so unaware. Knowledge is there, but it is never free those whose themselves unfree.
I wish to join in the ranks of great artists whose work expressed their unique individuality, their burning core of creation. Human beings who accepted their authentic vision of beauty come what may. Ruin, or late acclaim or even madness might follow, but I know this; that the voice that compels me to write, compels me to speak, my mind's eye that sees the visions of worlds unknown, those are mine and mine alone. Worlds of beauty and horror to visit and terrify every night, and day dreams that are more real to me than anything I could ever share with anyone. They are mine and mine alone, and the trill of their exploration, the trill of crafting them into words, pictures, voices, thoughts cannot be shared. They cannot be repeated. The ranks are few, and far between, diaries come close, but not always. There's that filter in between the writers and the reader, and the less of that coming the closer I get to my core.
I will write something to make one awaken instead of fall asleep. And see the day for once. To write another novel, another piece where the reader could close the story, feeling happy and fulfilled inside for having witness another perform the task that one essentially understood to be theirs to do. No I seek to jar those with half and eye open to fully witness, to stare upon the fire here, the shadow puppets, and see the light if you dare for yourself.
A sense of life...
Each moment becomes a moment to dream. Where I belong, my own oblivion. I need no one now, can have no one.
This training, this craftsmanship aids in the communication of it, but the beauty of the inner space of the creator is something only he can work on himself. It is the boat from within to without, the link, the communication, but it will not replace a void, a cheap imitator, or a dishonest hack. Those who spend their time singing others song be weary of forgetting your own. When the voice can no longer tell its own from the others, when its vessel would mold itself completely in idol worship of another, then creation is abandoned for ritual, a performance of something past and done.
Creation is active. I must know what I think. I must do what is rare to achieve what is rarer. The truth cannot set you free if you never speak it, or speak it without honesty.
And if the blood falls in between my fingers, to disfigure either of us, I know that it is only an eye on the world that it ever was. You could learn to love a monster. But you must learn to love whatever it is you do first.
Small platitudes. Performance is the order of the day, achieving a sort of 'realism'. It's always a realism never real. A world where you're taught to smile in politeness, smile to hide anger, smile in the face of death, to smile when you don't feel like it so others won't be upset, to smile instead of yawn, to smile at our own ignorance. What then does a smile actually look like? We're taught to act, but not to be. We're told to be free, but never shown. We're made to fear, and feel ashamed when we are.
This utter lie the swallowing of that I weep for. Tricked, lied, and rewarded to act and not cognizant of their hollowness, I see the void that children become. It's ever sad, and constantly said. Children learn ever so well. To learn instead of to grow. At last we are here a spoon fed society. Unable to grow, but constantly willing to learn, to adapt. Unable to live, but fearful of death.
In another life I might have been a serial killer, if I taught others worth killing. Now I wait for my moment, scheming, hoping.
Learning has robbed away the spirits of men. Where the majority subjugate themselves to rules never questioned. Marching in lock step towards individual dreams on hollow grounds. So lost, so trapped, and so unaware. Knowledge is there, but it is never free those whose themselves unfree.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Potential
To accept the heroic
and individual
in oneself.
To express
and experience the uniqueness
of this imagination to the edges
of its own possibility.
And to feel
the struggle and the strain
and the doubt.
Because I bring it on myself.
I bring it on myself.
How else can I own it?
How else can it belong to me?
The crimson seeds sown upon battlefields,
or trees now palisades
to keep the planters alive
were not sacrifices I needed to bear, to understand
How much a burden...
How much a strain...
Did you fight for freedom?
That there more kindness in the youth
who embraces sight
that the old can
no longer see
What a mess....
White clouds riding upon the winds,
may only give shape,
to the one that can see through
these voices that sing mimicry,
and be precious only to those that can paint
against blank skies.
I look upon the eyes of those that aren't my enemy
And quiet respect for the struggle they endure
I wish I could free them from the hands that have them chasing,
laurel leaves they already hold.
Though criminal as that may be,
the worse crime is to deny
thee, thee
I will make them see
I will make them see
There's nothing more precious
than the dying light that is
thee
and individual
in oneself.
To express
and experience the uniqueness
of this imagination to the edges
of its own possibility.
And to feel
the struggle and the strain
and the doubt.
Because I bring it on myself.
I bring it on myself.
How else can I own it?
How else can it belong to me?
The crimson seeds sown upon battlefields,
or trees now palisades
to keep the planters alive
were not sacrifices I needed to bear, to understand
How much a burden...
How much a strain...
Did you fight for freedom?
That there more kindness in the youth
who embraces sight
that the old can
no longer see
What a mess....
White clouds riding upon the winds,
may only give shape,
to the one that can see through
these voices that sing mimicry,
and be precious only to those that can paint
against blank skies.
I look upon the eyes of those that aren't my enemy
And quiet respect for the struggle they endure
I wish I could free them from the hands that have them chasing,
laurel leaves they already hold.
Though criminal as that may be,
the worse crime is to deny
thee, thee
I will make them see
I will make them see
There's nothing more precious
than the dying light that is
thee
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Distractions in the Modern Age
I like Lacan's notion of the Real as being that which returns into place. If I could keep to that distinction between the real, and the unconscious then I would be a much more productive individual able to stand witness to a self-defeating delusion against a tide of unsavory self-hatred.
To be able to write with less distraction. Endless distraction is the reality of modern life, and unavoidable to get into the touch of what is going on inside this technological revolution spiraling into the generation. I can only hope to lessen the distraction enough to get to the core of my writing self. It is a showdown with Truth as I feel it that trickles out of these hands, and if the hands are stained with the blots of the the unsavory dribbling of my soul then so be it. Writing is possibly one of the most democratic art forms there are. This means that there is a lot of crap written all the time, which doesn't make any of it less true. A serial killer can write as much as a rapist, as much as an insurance salesman or arms-dealer.
In terms of distraction, checking email is worse than smoking half a pack of cigarettes. As long as one doesn't go for an extended cigarette break to chat with neighboring balconies, you can be sure to smoke it and get right back on the idea as it's hitting you in front of the screen, or notebook.
One's attitude can be as important as one's words. In this written universe, we can feel the futility of words to other mediums in everday life. We're constantly attempting to use words to 'convey' to 'denote' things like emotions, attitude, intentions, all the things which are so much or expressive and easily available as a human-being through other mediums like facial expressions, or the voice.
Words, words, words.
They rattle off in the mind like the sound of dice falling wherever they may. It's either luck, or some divine monkey on a type-writer keeping me going as I'm barely conscious in this drunken-commando haze. It's hazing, but I seem to do the best writing on the verges of passing out. There's something just so right about not being able to stand it any longer, and succumbing to slumber that makes the whole experience less than self-aggrandizement and murder at the same time.
To be able to write with less distraction. Endless distraction is the reality of modern life, and unavoidable to get into the touch of what is going on inside this technological revolution spiraling into the generation. I can only hope to lessen the distraction enough to get to the core of my writing self. It is a showdown with Truth as I feel it that trickles out of these hands, and if the hands are stained with the blots of the the unsavory dribbling of my soul then so be it. Writing is possibly one of the most democratic art forms there are. This means that there is a lot of crap written all the time, which doesn't make any of it less true. A serial killer can write as much as a rapist, as much as an insurance salesman or arms-dealer.
In terms of distraction, checking email is worse than smoking half a pack of cigarettes. As long as one doesn't go for an extended cigarette break to chat with neighboring balconies, you can be sure to smoke it and get right back on the idea as it's hitting you in front of the screen, or notebook.
One's attitude can be as important as one's words. In this written universe, we can feel the futility of words to other mediums in everday life. We're constantly attempting to use words to 'convey' to 'denote' things like emotions, attitude, intentions, all the things which are so much or expressive and easily available as a human-being through other mediums like facial expressions, or the voice.
Words, words, words.
They rattle off in the mind like the sound of dice falling wherever they may. It's either luck, or some divine monkey on a type-writer keeping me going as I'm barely conscious in this drunken-commando haze. It's hazing, but I seem to do the best writing on the verges of passing out. There's something just so right about not being able to stand it any longer, and succumbing to slumber that makes the whole experience less than self-aggrandizement and murder at the same time.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Writing Early in the Mornings
There is something to be said about writing in the mornings. Surprisingly sleep came early last night towards the break of midnight, and I awoke to the early Chinese (I'm guessing from the way their language sounds, but most likely) joggers in the playground behind the house and of course my friends the rats. While I've thinned their population to say perhaps the last family in the house their complete extermination/removal/relocation has been elusive. They're now wise to my traps and I must change strategy (which gets me thinking why rats aren't symbols of cleverness like foxes; probably bad PR). Any suggestions?
Unfortunately, the early sleep did not yield scribbable dreams. To me this is a night lost. From the dream comes my best work. What is better; waking up tired with ideas but unable to write, or waking up fresh without a idea to begin exploring, but able to write? Perhaps a schedule could be arranged to have both, yet I have a sinking feeling that one is cheating the other.
I finally feel in the right position to be able to discuss certain other books finished, and work on current projects. A nice beginning to another hopefully productive day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
