I realize that nobody waits for a moment of clarity, but reaches in and grabs hold of the nerve to become clear. To gain a hold of yourself, in leaving something carved into your surroundings that bares what you thought and felt, you achieve this cognitive flow by opening the channel.
No matter what, we have a grip on the combination of tones and meanings that show what we can get out of this life. This is not to make perpetual conclusions on the nature of reality for others to adhere to and pit against each other, but to offer instances of the palette of subjectivity to savor their uniqueness. The “waiting” aspect for that ZAP! of spontaneous alignment is simply the physically and emotionally cruddy process of dispelling impulses and healing injuries that run counter to something compellingly sensible for the individual’s current moment or unique situation.
If we are the designers and communicators of our realities, it should follow that we’re also capable of overcoming stutters in traveling and shaping their continual path. By ceasing the constraint of our own strain, we get somewhere new at whatever rate. By departing from meticulous limits, we figure-in our own direction with our own ways of doing things. An entirely new sense of pace instead of “productivity.”
Recently, this has been the case for my endeavor in grasping things to write about. The project’s underlying nature is the iterations of my perspective and its defining experiences, documenting how I’ve made it this far and what’s been going through my head at the time. I think the wandering characteristic of the whole undertaking is at the core of everything here. After my latest month-long no big deal of creative snag that plagues anyone who writes, I have a renewed sense of affinity with its purpose.
At present, with other distinct topics, the project is situated around the conceptual and practical possibilities of unconstrained human autonomy; its creative drive, its nature of conflict with global industrial society — and in turn the nature of that society, channeled through free association in a perpetual creation of a vibrant anarchy derived from willingness and desire.
From this general idea stems a lot of questions around the outset of its implications. Many of them have historically been answerable in the world theater of conflict, or reworded and answered differently in columns, journals and personal accounts. But right now, in confronting the different mounting questions through the device of writing in the lens of the contemporary accelerated world, there is too much to go on. Too many branches that run too deep to adequately join end-to-end as a conclusive narrative. Too much baggage for a digestible human conversation.
The problem is not that words are no longer sufficient, but that the reality they attempt to make form of contradicts the basis of writing as the ever-developing social sphere with norms and expectations it has become.
It’s always seemed more comprehensible, on a more nuanced level per the subject, to offer fragmented insights and general principles that fill in the blanks regarding this or that concern. This has at least been the closest practical form of understanding in the same way as the subject, which is what I prefer writing to aim for above aesthetics.
There is always the possibility that this is a broken aspect of writing itself, in which the craft has been altered along the way to compensate. That we weren’t expected to write the whole content of something, but to dilute and specialize the intricacies in ways that the readers conclude themselves. In the case of the novel or the poem, one has to defer those cruxes to the qualifying style of their written form. But for me, in trying to describe confrontational aspects to the world as it is, my grasp on clarity becomes weaker as the glaring technical norms constrict what compels my wording.
Because we’re the designers of our realities in a society of domination, those who design the commentary on the society’s specifics will inherit its reductions of creativity. It also seems that the same logic of “content creation” that I advocated for at the post-Web 2.0 apogee has deteriorated what originally attracted me to the written word. The mindset of accumulating readers and clicks, the interconnection of platforms, analytics, browser cookies, resource descriptions and specifications. Although this ensemble of content management has opened an interesting chapter in the sharing of ideas for everyone else, it performs a role in what my project’s content undermines and what my creative joys are withered by. Thus I feel the same functions that are usually reserved for work in my most personal, self-validating area of expression.
In my own experience, this apprehension sets in after a basic concept is outlined. The initial anxiety of designing a narrative is supplemented with the time it takes to assume its design. This goes on to agitate feelings of being unproductive, a lesser creator of lesser capability. A new yet familiar issue is always rising when working on a different idea to find this same pattern. Subsequently, I find myself making case studies out of these complex challenges in writing, with self-awareness being the guiding light to avoid the wrong impressions. Tired on all fronts.
I’ve acknowledged apprehension before, incorporating it into different meditations. Often times, I’ve used it to justify (almost to apologize for) my tumults as a writer; to give them purpose, cover my ass for being absent, brush over my mental health issues. What I haven’t done is actually change the course of my project in response to the distress, taking the activity into a separate mode of arranging ideas. Because I write only what I can, only I can open the channel, grasp clarity to create both something, and from something new.
So what piece of clearheaded wisdom did I snatch out of thin air? It could be that I’m more suited to accumulate and compact notes, at least for the time being. What separates my ideas from my production of narratives is their cultivation. The richest words I’ve strung together still haven’t been published, but the combined outset of what I have published might suggest otherwise. This is quite remarkable. The fragments too out-of-context for Twitter and too single-purpose for their own essays contain more clarity in less words than anything else I’ve published. If I allow these to enrich each other with all development on the same page, they have a chance of becoming either radiant, lucid fibers of my project or distinct mutations of their own when I decide that they’re good enough. I have yet to see where this goes.
One thing remains. If my perspective is central to my endeavor, any willful apprehension of my writing means total surrender.
There is nothing external to be sorted. We already have our notes to self, our habits in vocabulary and conceptualizing, our late night edits and rewrites. Sunlight fills the room of my enclosure in these walls through the window, not to apprehend the impulses of my thought — not to bully me into “going outside more” to be a better human, but because everything has no intrinsic apprehension or schedule. We need no drill instructor in our heads to defer to. Like any kind of growth, the design of our reality blossoms bit by bit from the exasperation of our creative angst. I just think, as an anarchist, it’d be nice to see that persistence rid itself of all inhibitions and abstractions: Defiant passion grasping clarity at its best moment for the total disintegration of power relations in creativity.
Renouncing apprehension in the self-process that thinks; in the instinct of the pen stroke; in the preconception of the reader; in the judgment of bibliography; in the volume of words — this is where things become clear, where creative endeavors start from their inspirations instead of a normative posture.
Reset myself, and get back on track