Sunday, 6 June 2010
Saturday, 5 June 2010
The main concern with Romantic Deconstructionism is the struggle between stream of consciousness and deconstruction of thinking. One that wants to create a piece of work in this style must not just let the thoughts flow onto the page, they must feel their way through the concepts that their mind is putting forth. To clarify, if you’re thinking about writing, you can’t just say “writing”, you must deconstruct that even further. Writing, the creative process, the acceptance of others, expression, validation, repeated thought, flowing thought, un-flowing non-thought, concerns of existentialism, understanding, any other concepts that might drive your “writing”, all of these must be explored instead of just saying “I’m thinking about writing”.
While exploring these concepts, do not merely write down the thoughts that make sense, write down every utterance, every sound and beep and whistle and cock beep that panda fucks its way into your mind while you’re trying to write. And then get rid of “panda fuck” because it makes no sense. Romantic Deconstructionism isn’t about not making sense, it’s about making things that don’t make sense stop making non-sense. And be careful with what you write. There is a difference between nonsense and non-sense. That difference is a - .
These detours that we take between coherence and non-in-un-coherence are what make romantic deconstructionism what it is. It is the ability to accept your mind's thought process. We are not perfect, our thinking and our thoughts (non-thoughts, un-whatevers) constantly wander and explore the opposite of what we are thinking. The mind does not need to be clear to create things that are beautiful, or sound beautiful. The beauty of life, for me, and for many others, comes from moments of clarity and calm.
Even when you are in a situation of chaos and destruction, if you are able to distance yourself from that situation, to look at it with silence and care, everything is beautiful. We live in a world of repetition, complication, confusion, and uncertainty, but we can be certain of that, and that is beautiful. Allow your mind to be “crazy”, entertain every off off off wordd every off word that every ever ever never word off of off word that your mind can’t seem to get past past.
Recognize the beauty around you, but do not allow it to become your obsession. Never take your own advice, but never allow yourself to not take your own advice. Become, be, am, what. And then there is a silence. Get excited about what you are writing, go off on a rant, have it completely make sense and then realize how little sense it makes.
What we witness with this isn’t just a jumble of words that are pointless and un-worthy of reading, or of even being called writing. We are witnessing an acknowledgement of the fallibility of the mind. Once we realize this, we have those moments of clarity and silence, and the romantic side comes through.
Through the deconstruction of thought, we gain calm. And then we remember something. For one to write in this style you must have a strong sense of the romantic and tragic bits and pieces of the world. Physics is beautiful, the falling of leaves is beautiful, but so is the manner in which we stack and list ourselves. Human beings are so concerned with surviving that we have created all these superfluous things such as footballs and butterfly catching.
Sometimes all I can think about is what I can hear, and then my entire mind thinks about how the rest of my mind can’t think about anything but what I can hear. And then I write that sentence. And then I have a moment of clarity and I remember the way that you shrugged your shoulders once when you couldn’t find a cigarette and I realized that it was then that I loved you. But then I think about how you don’t want me to love you and it makes me want to erase what I just wrote.
It is OK to be sad as long as it’s beautiful. It’s OK to make no sense as long as it all makes sense. I might not really love you but I really love the world. It’s just that sometimes I find it difficult to make sense of it all.
So I invite you all to explore your minds and share those minds and explorations of your minds and non-minds with others. Remember, as long as you get there it doesn’t matter if you even get there.
Joseph Mack Stohlman
It seems like I’m sitting there and you’re sitting next to me, but on a different seat. And it seems like I’m talking to you but sometimes I don’t know and I’m not sure about if I’m talking to you or if any of this is really happening. I take a breath, I look at you, and the moment is paused. Why can’t I remember this? Why can’t I see you and why can’t my mind see you. Seeing you is seeing you and if seeing you is then why aren’t I? And why aren’t you and this moment in my mind and why can’t I remember this moment in my mind and why can’t I every do i every and I ever can’t never can do?
And I’m confused and scared that I can’t write but you told me I can and it makes me believe that I might.
And every sentence I start seems to start with seems to start and and. And when I triple and or double what or double up on what I said I think that maybe I might be doing it wrong
But you told me I am doing it write and that I can do it right and it makes me believe that I can but I just don’t know right now.
The flowing ever-limping sentence structure of my feeble attempts at innovation seem to slow me down and keep me from being.
I am worried that I can’t write anymore. I’m worried that I’ll never again be that person that you saw. When you saw a light behind me and in me and that light really was there.
I promise it was there but I think it might be fading.
I’m tired of thinking that I’m unable to write. I can write it’s just that I’m not sure that I have a suitable subject. And the subjects in my mind are subjectively shit and the objects in my writing are objectively intangible and therefore cannot be written about. but I can try. I can try but it might not come out right.
And then maybe you won’t see that light ever again and maybe my light has faded.
What if the sounds were more than just sounds. I’m trying to think of ways that this could be but I but I be what I can’t and I can’t and I’m obsessing with the small words too much. When i concentrate on my typing and that typing becomes looking at words and not thinking then the words the words then become the words and all the words ever become is the words “the words. Do you understand what I’m trying to say? Believe my I’m trying not to repeat myself but sometimes it’s difficult because all I can hear is the clicking of the keys and the popping of messages being sent from electronic winds across electronic waters and into my electronic brain.
Have I uploaded myself into some sort of other world? Have I fully let go of my internal, but not internal but it seemed like internal at the time, but eternal. And am I eternal? And are you eternal and will you still be there when I’m old or will you at least still be in my mind when I’m old.
I hope you will and I think about you all of so much of the time, but the other times I’m thinking about things that are right in front of me like the words on the words on the words on this page.
Please just and can’t and I please and can’t and I just and and and I just and can’t which witch can’t and I just and the words just don’t make sense when they’re about nothing. And I can spend all the time and effort and energy in the world on making sure that I don’t have to make sense but I just don’t feel it when it happens like that.
This is the problem with letting go of meaning. If I deny it I feel less. The insanity of the mind is not as beautiful and emotive as I want it to be. And is this my self-referential moment of clarity? And was that “self referential” too early and did my mind jump to it too soon?
And is too early and then too soon too redundant to be written on an electronic page? And is the clicking and typing of my mind drowning out the clicking and typing of my computer yet, or is it still the other way around?
I’m not as afraid as I once was of asking questions but I feel like you should be afraid of me asking questions. I’ve given up on grammar and meaning but I desperately want to be a good writer, and I want you to like this and I want you to love me for it.
Someone very wise which might have been you once told me that when I read and I write I have a beautiful light inside me. That I become a different person, and when someone wise who might’ve been you said that to me I almost cried because it was the one thing I wanted to hear.
And I stopped there for a moment and thought about the fact that I was writing. And when you are reading this or perhaps hearing it are you hearing it from me? Are you reading it from me or are you reading the paper? Are you seeing the letters or are you seeing the letters I wrote?
When does it come back to the mind? Does it? I question myself and a lot of the time the sentences in my head make no sense and the senses in my head cannot be formed in sentences.
Please help me, or please read this and then tell me that I don’t need help.
And when you do that, can you let me know? I’m no good at guessing those things for myself.
It’s dark and I’m taking commonly used shortcuts to seem like I don’t care that it
And I don’t allow the capitals and the unmeant capitalization of my words to deter me from
Whhhhhhhhhhatever it is that I needed to think
Shrill trumpets without S’s do the work for me, they think for me
Shrill trumpets that make me think of dancing feet beneath a piano holding on to a kind eyed japanese man that I doubt I’ll ever top
I called you, or I didn’t call you but I used the thing that I use to call you to speak to you and you didn’t respond or haven’t responded yet and I’m not sure that it matters
Because the trumpet is just there, and a cool cat on a windowsill is just there and it
What’s wrong? Is it loneliness or boredom or is it loneliness and boredom or is it the lack of everything but loneliness and boredom or is it that I can’t seem to get away from this loneliness and boredom and I keep wanting to spell it with a Y but I know it’s not right.
You is still there, and the trumpet is now a ssssaxaphone. And a period and a sentence started with and.
I know you’ll get it
I know you’ll get that you don’t have to get it and I know my words are short and somewhat meaningless but I just have to get have to keep getting have to just get out of this loneliness and boredom
Or just a spurt
Spurt isn’t “poetic enough” and neither are quotation marks. Do they call them quotation marks in this country? What country am I in? and why is it so dark, and why haven’t you called back, and why do I care?
This is a moment, but I want to forget it.
This is a moment too, but I want you to remember it.
I miss you. Even when you’re here. You. Me. you is eye.
When i’m tired and dried up I just sit
And you’re sitting there but i can’t see you because when you’re sitting I don’t look
And when I’m tired and you’re sitting there I just can’t sit, so I lean
And you’re so many ands to me sometimes
But most of the time I just sit