Poetica of a Divided Life
As a matter of convention I will provide a quick summary of the following surreal description that may be difficult to understand for my level in the craft:
This blog will contain from now on a story or poem conceived in the moments of, before, or after my new schedule of working on the craft, writing-everyday from 7:30-10:30. My writing needs a closed-zone to be shaped and developed into what I want it to be.
All you need to know is that I am posting on here regularly with this new way of going about the craft. I may not respond during these hours.
What follows is a lengthy, difficult description of why I chose to change and set a work schedule.
*Note: Do not let this bother you if it does not make sense. It is merely my stream of consciousness thought. I inform you all of my goals in the belief that telling someone else of what I plan to do will hold me more accountable.
I write this page out of convention. Though I do not believe in convention. I write this page on the working convention. I work every day, become a slave to the craft. Though I do not believe in “slaves” nor do I “craft.”
What follows next always follows. It is the convention of schedules and modules. Though I do not believe in schedules only cajoles. Though I believe in everything happening all the time.
So I work away according to hours. Working man like Walt Whitman, “Everything is ours.” For everything is time –
“Are you go’na leave ’em out! or put ’em in-the spider?”
Within these hours I may post something of magnitude. But, as I say, I do not believe in hours or altitude:
7:30-10:30 every day
Eventually the work numbs the brain. You become numb to work and work flow. You have only your emptied, dead, robotic body. Occasionally a “misstep” will remind you but you slowly become dead. Unless you force yourself into the words into the mysterious, you will die while in life, sleep while awake. You may plunge yourself into the thick breathless dark. Until you become the breath of death you will only find torture and insane man. Being death you may offer yes’s and no’s and build a silent peace on Earth. In America this is how things work. Kill thy neighbor or let thy neighbor kill you. There have been more killings than compromises. We are on the way down. That is the nature of our souls. We are obedient to temptation. My temptation is to write every day in step with my ancestral track to my celestial track and beyond.
I’m using the tool of my ancestors. Though I do not believe in apparent “masters.” That’s why it’ll be mostly surreal and experimental.
This goes on, starting normal, ordinary as convention like a schedule and slowly becomes more surreal and abstract the more I work. Like the fight between life and death.