Images of an upside-down world, where I am not as I appear here but only half. The other, upside-down, half is Holm built from fragments, and together we look like a playing card. Do I need to let him write? Go on, take the pen.
Kammarheit. A sticky table in the bar. A pint. A cigarette. A wistful look out of the distant window. Memories of a piano. Nostalgia for that which never was.
Images, images, images and themes. Mismatched snippets. See the art in them. Narrative threads feel so unnatural now, like we are forcing machinery. The real connections are not so overt. Intuition’s flow is seriously undervalued in this world of self-inflicted limitations.
Write to feel something.
The invitation is open.
“The mistake you make is that you expect the wisdom to come from the male muses. What about the heart? What about the raw willpower and the non linear, non rational underlying purpose? She has given you the sword, not him. You need to use it.
“Think of them greats (in your mind). Think of who impresses you most and where that comes from. Think of the character of the writing itself.
“Immerse yourself, plunge deep.”
Lispector, the water, the cup. How does she find such depth of emotion while remaining herself aloof? A hard hit: this is why I like her; this is what I am.
“Don’t back away. Read on. That feeling of defeat is not required.”
When we were together, the wall came up and I disappeared behind it. I’d be silent, ghostlike. When we were apart, those boundaries were gone completely and I could no longer discern where you ended and I began. I’d send agonising messages of true depth like you’d never seen. It scared you.
[find the real treasure / unique and irresistible]
You say, but I am running through fog. The coldness, and the muffled silence, of snow in my head. Your words are distorted by the inclement and highly localised weather, and they lose all meaning.
I first learned to travel to Tangerine Dream [Bent Cold Sidewalk]. It opened the doors to inner dimensional beings.
[Could one – or all – of the doors have been maladaptive or magic?]
Someone may introduce you to a piece of music, but you will form your own relationship with it. You will project your own subjectivity and see parts you never knew where there, like it’s a mirrored surface for the soul.
[Now do the beach scene for Terminal Velocity or the bathroom stall scene for Ghosts]
An artist caught in the web of his own creations. Gripped between the claws of the muse. He converses, sure. He’s even quite the socialite. But he will never relinquish the elixir that runs through his veins, and you will never know the 1% that is 99% of him.
Though Parallels has begun, Journal Sequences continue. Perhaps they always will.
Try something out. Look for patterns, rhythms, connections in journaling and beauty in fragments. Look for the point at which communication breaks down between writer and reader, where intrigue fails and where the key to subjectivity may lie. Free myself up. Join personal beats with character perspectives and notes for plot. Play with the boundaries between fiction and reality. Look for the line to ride.
The I will eat itself.
The image in the header is my own.