Notes from the Other Side
May 20, 1991: thought racing
"Although Ginsberg eventually had to free himself from his dependence on this remembered moment, he continues to believe in it as a personal revelation of a quality common to all high poetry."
--Norton Anthology of Poetry, 2nd edition, p. 1208
This sentence brings so many ideas to my mind that I wonder if I could even write them down.
- Writing isn't merely participation in a game of stringing symbols. All of my life is involved here too. A bunch of time gets wrapped up in trying to find some shorthand way of recording these experiences (or thoughts on these experiences) into poems, stories, novels...
- I have, perhaps, been dependent on a "remembered moment." Ecstatic experience. But there have been other memories which at various points in my life have seen me through hard times -- like Paivi's comment about marrying a man like me. I hardly remember it now, but at the time it meant a lot, and I nourished the memory for a long time (over three years at least -- I only know about it now because I *recorded* it in my megaletter to Beth).
- The desire to tell *interesting* stories -- to get attention! to make people want to listen! FOR POWER! to carve an existence for myself. Dependent on others, but providing them with something they want.
- I want my writing to be something which can be enjoyed and richly appreciated without knowing anything about me. But even richer when considered with each other and my life. Interlocking but not interdependent.
Just got back from the meadow next door. I was running to and fro. First I'd run to, then I'd run fro. I also ran for the sheer joy of running nowhere. In a secluded clearing I cartwheeled, capered, and somersaulted. What fun. I stood at the sliding glass door thinking how fun it would be to run "obsessed with a sudden flash" [Howl] and then I thought, man, maybe you're supposed to run *first* sometimes -- and then the flash comes. I stepped out through the door and in no time I was grinning like a madman, cutting through the apartment complex with my arms swinging and my bare feet on the grass. Immediately I was swept up in the joy of it. I went to the street, Range Road, and went under a barbed-wire fence. I had to stop and look at it a while, first. The barbs looked sharp. Could I climb over? Better not. I had a feeling of elation as I slipped under, thru the weeds. An obstacle surmounted -- now I could run free!
One other revelation in the meadow: Martin Neverson can be a robot, the ghost of a robot. "I first discovered I was a robot at the age of twelve" -- great vehicle for paranoia, skepticism.
"I realize nothing that I write will make sense to the rest of you, since a robot's experience must be completely different from a human's."