Renaissance

At long last I’ve come back. My barrier, I’ve decided, has been my attachment to the gestural act of writing by hand with its artistic symbols and rhythm. I felt, and still feel, that without the physical, helical motion of my right arm the words could not flow unimpeded. I scripted hundreds, perhaps thousands, of pages, but what will come of it? Nearly all is lost to me aside from whichever page I happen to have open in whatever particular legal pad from my vast and growing collection is currently available. Since I seem to be nomadic I am not often near my treasured memories, my transient glimpses into the aeons of internal space. I hope that each expedition into my own mind aided by the machinery of words sifts endlessly through my unconscious, but what use is hope when compared to efficacy?

My problem is not one of content or ideas. It is one of transcription, the simple act of archiving my records systematically and with redundancy. An inopportune fire or flood could destroy years of my life and many externalized personal revelations. From now on I will store these moments alone to myself in the eternity of the internet.

It will be difficult because I am becoming inflexible. I must deterritorialize from the private ecstasy of the thin, blue line where pen meets paper and banish the attachment entirely or carry it with me into diverse and new forms of expression. I must be agnostic to medium in order to master my universe and “live and experience myself” as what Deleuze and Guattari term “the sublime sickness.” Like life on earth, I intend to thrive upon a ravenous star. Forgive me if my initial forages seem crude. I am relearning how to write.