A new trial in a new year has me sitting in here, publicly typing. I haven't done this much before (once at Penn, in the computer lab on a quiet afternoon) out of some kind of self consciousness, fear, or perhaps the simple difficulty of formulating thought under the weight of subconscious observation. So in the office I sit, feeling oddly inspired, though about nothing in particular. John sits at his desk, studying (as I ought to be) and I hesitate for a moment, wondering if he will look up at the unaccustomed mass of struck keys or if he will stay, satisfied in his scholarly world. I am not sure which I hope for. I think about writing all the time although I seem to make it to this page more rarely than I would like, especially after my birthday promise. But the thinking itself is good (I think :}) since one of the goals of writing regularly is to help words flow more naturally of my tongue or fingertips - sentiments without embarrassment or conceit. More than anything I hope the writing here comes across as real, whatever that actually means, lacking artifice or careful composition. I can promise you this is hardly ever "composed" - usually I am simultaneously typing and thinking - often staring at my half-written words wondering where was I going with this? and sometimes deleting or continuing but rarely with long hesitation. Surrealismo, as I studied in Spanish 203, the kind of writing that you simply let flow is not terribly far from this although the fact that I bother with grammar and logical connection moves it more firmly into the physical. The art of rambling, perhaps, is all that I am trying to perfect, something safe and noncommittal which strikes me as sad now that I have written it. I do wish to commit, to hope, to trust. Maybe I should start by calling to John.
I finally sat down last weekend to read my sister's master's thesis (the written component, since she didn't ship all the artwork to chicago for my benefit) which I believe is titled something like "Towards an Epistemological Art in an Age of Mechanical Distraction". I think this title might be why it took me so long to pick up the pages. It turns out the conceptual aspect of all those nice drawings she does is somewhat straightforward - she hopes to help people appreciate "slow art" (much like the resurgence of "slow food") and even, as a more underlying goal, to inspire people even to observe and see slowly. Features of our geography and context are often lost to us when we drive or take the bus, even walking is of little use if we are purely goal-oriented and don't bother with the immediate environment - we lose connection to what grounds us physically in this world. I at least am very aware of my physical, grounding minutiae this morning as I contemplate the veil of snow resting lightly on the pavement and green tips of grass. Fallen snow reveals more plainly not only the landscape that lies underneath it, but even the subtlety of air currents and the paths of breezes that shape the delicate frosting into piles and ridges where one would expect flat, unremarkable ground. I love to watch the flakes fall, to see where they land, and then to dash out into the weather myself, watch my coat speckle, squeak the fresh snow under my shoes, compacting it, and crunch the older icy chunks (a delight that never fails me) back into a glinting, hard confetti. Glitter falling from a party invitation - Today is Special.
I caught up on my reading over break partially out of the lost joy and partially out of desperation. It is a quiet life without midterms and compositions, even quieter with Ethan in Chicago and my sister in San Diego and my dad teaching again. I can't stay long in the house (cat allergies) so I make excuses of things to do outside - shopping, ultimate, lunch with my mom at work, sitting on the back step reading in the shade (it was 80 out). Also the trip to San Diego which I knew would be full of unbearable PDA (the non-electronic type) and the printed word was my way out. I revisit childhood favorites every time I go home - the bookshelves still two layers deep with the few favorites I bought - Elizabeth Enright, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Susan Cooper, Jane Yolen, Piers Anthony, Jean Craighead George - all my books from school, even the notebooks and my chem lab writeups from sophomore year. I lingered for a while, the only one up, listening to my father snore and the breeze lift the branches outside my window (ode to the mulberry) and sat in quiet indecision for the final book of the visit. Something a little longer and meatier, something that could envelop me in language. Robert Penn Warren. I hadn't opened the pages since I wrote my final English essay on it in January of 2000. My paperclips were still marking pages (I wouldn't highlight in the books), color coordinated to a long-forgotten system. I remembered the opening pages of driving on the road, mesmerizing and densely lucid, prose that lost me and lost itself as it carried on down the page, my eyes forming only the shapes of the words and losing the meaning, the semantics, but never the feeling of inevitability and purpose. I am left after this paragraph, the sort which repeats in every chapter, in a state of emotional connection to the text with a complete lack of actual memory of the words on the page. I simply absorb them without comprehension. When I slow to sort out the clauses and imagery and sequence I lose the urgency and feeling of the passages - they are meant to be felt more than read, I think, so I comply. I wonder if my writing here can ever achieve the same sort of hypnotic ebb and flow across a page, vocabulary of connotation and periphery, although I don't want to imitate Warren's style - I've already done that, seven years ago in an in-class exercise.
