on writing

I am wondering how to write. 

I'm reminded of Nietzsche. In The Gay Science his prose was, in comparison to his later works, boring. I think he had a distaste for writing so practically. His thoughts changed; to read what he had had wrote made him cringe. And so, he later wrote as to make the text ambiguous. The perspectives were welcomed. And he was made more than what he was.  


Reading someone's blog posts, the same person I've silently ridiculed because of how detailed and verbose and well-done they write, I'm inspired. There exists what I want in this person; to write, and do it with conviction. Their writing looks like worship. 


I'm hateful of stereotypical writing techniques when trying to write a blog. I'm agitated at having a model of a 
blog post when I am writing. It kills creativity and motivation. 

I want to write more. My life feels over-saturated with meaning and I want to express it. I have grown a nightmare out of silence. 


It is hard to translate floating thoughts into syntax and grammar. Intimidating, when you've always done it with your most buoyant ones. Words are like cages.


When I was younger I admired long and tangled sentences. Sentences like garden hoses. I considered them signs of high ability, and I emulated them. Now, I'm over it. I like simplicity, minimalism. Emily Dickinson is right for me. 


I want my thoughts to be fatty. My writing like a razor. The process: to trim and make lean.


I think of how I appear to others through my writing. A thing I've naturally learned by writing short stories is that there is an amateurish engagement where one is trying to convey to the reader who and what one is through the story. 
This is noticeable to nearly anyone, and lame. 
The writer is an epigram-generator. They are trying to translate the drama of movie scenes, abusing tropes, ending every paragraph with a closure, placing pointless references. Trying too hard, hoping and begging for the reader to see them through the words. I've written like this. I don't, or I'd like to think so, write like this anymore. 

Writing is vulnerable; I have to be okay with how others view me. Not uncaring, but okay. I dislike this audience in my head, especially because I like to think they're not there. Notice I did not say hate.

 

Poetry in the 21st

Speed disciplined the mind. 

The mode: time translated to purpose.

I've considered poetry to be in-conducive, a fight with memory, shuttled through a black box.

What information do you need? 
You are experiencing through words- What? 

To sit alone and read was once strange. One had to speak the word, or sing, to an audience. Augustine appeared other-worldy in his chair, reading silently. 



Is there contempt for inner music? 



I am content

The one with science and technology being sensationalized idiosyncrisis

I express some thoughts on Neuralink, physics and AI. I consider science to exist also as a commercial industry, and much of what we know of it is sensationalized because the platforms we use to get scientific knowledge, for the majority of people, function like businesses that are selling highly marketable products (ideas), which naturally causes a loss of scientific rigour and accuracy. So we are filled with a kind of pop-science understanding of AI, space, physics, and technology. And thinkers who provide sober and realistic perspectives are less considered and more disincentivized to partake in mainstream scientific discourse.  Basically, when confronted with any public thinker we have to ask ourselves: What is this person trying to sell me?  Scientist I forgot the name of: Sabine Hossenfelder 
  1. The one with science and technology being sensationalized
  2. Ramblings – on meaning
  3. Intro- My goal
  4. I am content

sometimes

sometimes i get stuck in my head.

the green of the grass outside sometimes gets stuck in my vision.
the motion blur in the car sometimes is not blurred enough.
the music in the bar gets into my veins and it’s not loud enough, sometimes.

i don’t want to keep sinking into the same old feelings,
i like the new, like changing old clothes,

it takes time for me to realize i’m not my feelings

anyway,

There is a need to make sense of experience through a language that is more authentic.

Language sets a standard to define our non-standard selves.

If you analyze yourself deeper, burrowing down to the centre (whatever that is),
the common words, symbols
become disingenuous means to express what it is found;

Convenient placeholders- ready made constructions for mass use.

Poetry is created from an inward movement
orbited to one mind
playfully engaged
in the struggle of re-definition.

decisions made between couples

Like a scene of a crime,
you come back to find what you missed
the first time.

It was too much to take in then;
the shock: too sincere;
so you go back,
and go again;
the memorable dries on wallpaper,
the senses clear
from a cloud of baking soda;

and each step backwards demands more of what was missed
until mystery writes another
same story

and
case solved;

though,

the stain of time…

Everyone looks down sooner or later to smile.

Blushing at a random cool breeze,
or reminded of something
long thought forgotten,

or feeling
something
long thought abandoned.

For a moment, a stranger’s eyes roam sporadic across a busy room,

and land into mine.

The brief capture of a life,
that entrapment of time,
of memory,

concentrated in gaze.

Sometimes, I look down smiling as well.

is that good?

You had this fragrance about you;
it smelled like the beach.

I always told you about it, and you
always replied “is that good?”

And I, of course, as
a gentlemen said “of course.”

That was a lie.

You smelled like one of those dirty beaches
people only travel
to because
it’s nearby
and they just want to waste a weekend.