Wish I could write like Kate Zambreno. Who adores Rilke, Wittgenstein, and the artist Durer. She lives through them, it seems. Scatters bits of ruminations on their lives and their artwork throughout. She just wanders carefully collecting wisps of observations, connections that barely connect, perhaps only through the air, because she hardly seems to have a body. Her body seems to be this arcane world both distant and trashy, incomprehensible, without theory or classic beauty, or classic meaning. And also beyond this world. She mentions her teacher and writing frustrations as if they are happening to someone else. Is all this a heroin flashback, existential pain as bliss, the most meaningless is inside out. Her dog is more reportable then her husband, but in a good way.
Because if I'm addicted to writing like I am, then I know that I don't really have an identity 'per se'. But then something must be happening. What is it, to just want to kiss everything with my mind, no matter what it is? What journey is this? I certainly would not want to say too much about anyone I actually do kiss, or hug or talk to all day. I'd only want to do that if I could say everything about them. Or just turn the camera on my life like in Sherman's March and then narrate my side of the story. A real show and tell.
Because the one who really lives in words, like a religious person or a philosopher - but not a lawyer or a politician or goddess knows - and I'm going out on a limb here - goddess knows not a social worker or an educator of social change, OMGoddess that would be the worst: the educator of progressive social change. I'd rather do anarchist self-help than parent all of society all at once. So many people with the maturity of 5 year olds... Probably myself as well. No, what I want is how to use ideas of non-hierarchy to assist in one's own well being. As well as others, but me first. Because if I experience myself as no one, at least I can take care of myself and try not to judge others. Just be in the world. Just talk to people, and listen.
Too sensitive as a youth probably. That might be the category. Too sensitive and lost in books. My best reading experiences were in 3rd grade when I found a series of books on the Greek, Roman and Norse myths. I ate them up. Perhaps I haven't advanced past the complexity of elementary school level English, which would explain why I also can soak right through Bukowski and Hemingway. Short stubby sentences. Kind of phallic sort of writing if I were to sexualize it. In the Lacanian sense. Show offy, slightly funny, the heat radiating right off the end of each short sentence, bouncing out of the period into the eyes, over and over and over again. Until at last the ending just appears and the reader is dropped off like a tagline, or a...
or a ...
I don't know what.
Yes, I don't know what. I get to the sexualizing within the writing and then I start the numerous asides and that's the end of it for me. I can't do Hemingway or Bukowski (or Zambreno for that matter), I'm too nervous, too hyped up. "Hypernormalization" is a terrific documentary I watched recently. I read that the director, Adam Curtis, considers his work "emotional documentary". I feel like I write until the heat is just too much for me to handle, I can't quite stretch it out like Zambreno does to a trascendant, tolerable level. Not yet.
But maybe my personal style will fit more with movie making. Music videos perhaps, those are enormously ethereal. Who needs to actually be someone when playing music? And painting the moving images over the music? The lyrics are as close to reality as it gets. Or if I could just be like Godard and the french new wave, become like Belmondo and Karina at the stony beach in Peirrot fou something something, espousing arcane lines while looking gorgeous in the sun on a beat up old dock. Then they go skipping back to the stone fisherman's cottage with a tiny floppy eared fox hovering around. And there's a parrot, for god's sake. Then Belmondo skips up over the roof of the cottage and down the other side, always jumping down to earth like only a youth can do, from too high, so that my poor back hurts watching him. I'm getting old, goddamit. But then she says lets go back to the gangster life, which they do, as if its some kind of rite of passage.
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