Details And Distractions

I used to fumble with titles. I would write almost without end and when I did end, I would deliberate for minutes, tens of minutes, attempting to pin a title, a header, some bizarre abstract of the work that precedes it.

It’s much more mechanical now, and therein lies the problem.

I have become bewitched by mechanics.
It is one thing to view a collection of cogs and belts, marvel at its aesthetics through a limited frame and move along. It is another thing entirely to examine it, peer into it, shine lights through it in order to see each shape and dimension, take measurements and then set to building a machine ones’ self.

It is all very interesting and all very meaningless. There is enormous delight to be had at comprehending a thing, of seeing it, seeing how it works, seeing it work and the results it generates (I am making a conscious effort to reduce the math-talk for today’s entry. By the by, I seem to be writing every day). Nevertheless it’s not very beautiful. Well, yes it is, but really, it isn’t.

Not to my particular tilt, anyway. That’s also a half-truth. It’s stupendously beautiful, and terribly important. It also precipitates an immeasurable amount of smugness at having tested a thing and finding that you’re correct. I apologise to everyone I’ve ever argued with, because you were all very right and correct and should feel accordingly smug yourselves – I am very much obsessed with rightness.

Not obsessed, but we’re being artistic, are we not?

Abstracts are so much more fun. I really am a postmodernist, more’s the pity. I’m all about amorality, subtext, uncertainty, multiple subtexts without firm definition, etcetera etcetera etcetera. These things are the things that likely most closely resemble my frame during a low cycle. Everything becomes about meaning then, yet one important component of daily life becomes absent or has its interpretation module destroyed or deactivated: communication. Translation, then, occurs in several steps. From the subject to an abstract to another abstract with possibly at least another one layer in between. The last abstract is language and on the occasion that I do end up writing about it, I’m left with a small fragment of something that may not necessarily be larger, or more detailed, just… more. More of it. More instances of it. More iterations (drink!) of it. Or perhaps less – less instances of it. Blah.

I think a thousand thoughts and bring them all with me as I sit down at my desk. I set out with one of them, some phrasing, some form, but I always depart. Delineation is a wonderful and terrible exercise to participate in. Each thought is assembled, perfect and flowing, like liquid, like machinery that moves as it should and achieves its purpose with brutal efficiency. At the same time it is reductionist (which naturally is part of my love/hate relationship with it) in that with each section one assembles, joined to its predecessor and in preparation for its successor, one must discard a thousand other compatible parts. And so, in this fashion, a linear piece of language is born, as powerful as it is completely inadequate.

A moment – I’ve just received a text.

Thank you.

The trouble with beautiful things is that no-one sees them. That’s not the immature pining you think it is, it’s a simple statement. It is exceptionally rare that we comprehend one another’s expressive languages and more importantly, dialects. This isn’t about sharing tastes now, about consuming art or unifying experience, the actual article is less relevant than the expression, than the language, than the dialect. That’s why you don’t need to be able to see the subject at all, you may not even perceive a single thing about it nor have a shred of inspiration provoked by it – the key is in understanding someone else’s dialect:

The key is in having your dialect understood.

Popular things are popular for good reasons and I’ve no problem with them in any way. What’s good about them is you can leave a decent amount of yourself therein and the bonus is you earn and can eat. Earning and eating…

Earning and eating.

That’s just it, isn’t it. I think I better keep writing as much as I am, start living from writing, stop spending finances on distractions because I have a backlog of them for starters and I have an inexhaustible supply of other works via friends.

Plus I derive so much value from going for walks and spending time with people. What the fuck am I doing? Why did I come home tonight and watch a film? It was good, I mean, the mechanics of digesting it and the normal provocations that came with it regarding who leant it to me are great, but I’d have much rather spent time with the actual person.

That’s what sharing art is. Sharing art, regardless of whether the receiving person will experience any common perceptions/translations, is about substituting one’s self with an abstract in place of one’s actual self where it isn’t convenient. As grand as some of this art is, it barely affords the tiniest translation of the person who gives and shares it. Discussion may reveal more, but it needs to be in depth, not seven or so assorted sentences before some other activity.

We are surrounded by distractions, that is to say I am surrounded by distractions, and I’d much rather be surrounded by people…

But people don’t want to be surrounded.
People run out of things to say, thoughts to think, energy to expend – this is likely my chief issue at the moment – being elevated means I have more energy than everyone around me. Respect to you for needing to go to bed but that fucking sucks. Why aren’t you here? Why aren’t we out? Why aren’t we talking about everything we’ve ever thought of ever? About our aspirations? About our projections? About our fears?

We come online or we drink a drop or three of alcohol and expose ourselves but we know it’s limited. Even when you’re smashed you know it’s limited. Christ, even sex is limited – it lasts for a certain amount of time and then it’s over and you can do it without any exposure at all – sitting and staring and talking and talking still and breathing and moving and still talking and then talking some more is actually the most intimate thing that can be done, the most important thing that can be done and we don’t do it enough, that is to say I don’t do it enough and I don’t have enough people available to me with which to do it.

So fuck you. You’re reading this instead of hearing me say it and that’s shit. It’s shit for you and it’s worse for me and I don’t want to write any more tonight. I’ve managed to anger myself which means I’m not tired and won’t sleep for fucken ages and this insomnia seems endless.