Tuesday, May 27, 2008

Why Write?



I write this, with no idea what I will write, simply to press idle keys into words to spin in cyberspace ether unknown. My intention is neither to edit nor assume incredible powers of uncoiling wonders. I don’t know what that means — an aside, then. Always does the trick.


I suppose it’s like bulimia. A compulsion to throw up thoughts, oblivious to where they might be sprayed, and if I’m honest, with very little heed paid to how or why I’ve been stuffed. Or stuffed myself.

Why write?

Why pass from gurgling bloodied birth to gurgling bloodied death without a trace?

That sounds preposterous. So now I’ll clarify. Short of cutting out my eyes and chopping off my ears and plunging my tongue into acid; short of stuffing bread dough in my nostrils and disconnecting my nerve fibres one by one, there is no hope of me becoming a conduit for zero information. Smash me against a wall in a car of hapless circumstance and I will continue — cannot but continue — to witness. And unless I am to die before my time, screaming myself to death, I must commune with other souls; declare that our haplessness has led us to speak of this.

Interestingly, my phone has just chirpychimed an unwanted distraction. Unwanted, because I’m writing this. And yet, If I’m to be truthful, it cannot go unheard. A simple doobydoop foist from a world over which I have no control into my miracle sprawl of deeds. Always, it is this. We seek our own room, our place, havehappening fingers and thumbs to the ludicrousest (yes — ludicrousest will do) of horizons

Ah...but the phone rings again, and in my enthusiasm for editing nothing (above and beyond what my brain has already filtered out before I have any sort of say in the matter) I must confess I haven’t the faintest idea what I’ve just been writing about. It’s scrolled up yonder, like the credits to an absurdly bad Disney film.

Which means that I’m here. Continuing to pose myself the question: why write? And in spite of the absence of Spotted Dicks hovering about my person like B movie spacecraft en crap, I spin (I’ve stood up now and attempted ballet-as-U-type) convinced that the proof is in the pudding. Did I mention earlier on I cannot help myself? Did I say that? What an interesting game.

My concern now, as letters hug themselves into words and race towards hurdles of clauses, is that I can’t decide whether I’m adventuring in the middle of some hitherto unseen wilderness, or dashing for the tape like a gibbering fool desperate to reflect on why he bolted at the sound of gunshot. I may never know. I can’t see time in this. There is perpetuity, is all I know. And whether in madness or stillness I am witness, I will bend full stops into commas; twist them and copy them into speech marks; blow the glass of their invisible finity into spurious whirls of question marks.

Why write?

No idea. No idea. No idea.

(OK - I’m not posting this!)


15 mins later (and to paraphrase — nay, quote — Marianne Moore: I may, I might, I must.)

Thanks for your post, WW.

Out!

Out!

Even if only this.

9 comments:

Anonymous said...

You're welcome. I'm assuming a good verbal brawl suits your mood?

YOu sound a bit melancholy. Time for a Guiness! Or, time for a nice long walk!

Or maybe time to write some more?

ww

Whirlochre said...

The Guinness and the nice long walk preceded the post — all that's left now is to shoot myself.

As for melancholy — no, 'tis joy, 'tis joy.

blogless troll said...

Amen, brother. Though, stuffing bread dough up your nostrils really isn't that bad. Er. So I've been told...

Robin S. said...

Hey WO -

I get the feeling you've got some pent up somethings inside you and wanting to come out- and because you're maybe unsure - they're taking their sweet and painful time, and they're nicely masked.

Or maybe I'm full of crap and I don't have one thin clue. It could happen.

Whirlochre said...

Thinks: Phew! They still haven't guessed I'm a talking lab rat. Now — right, left, or straight ahead?

Bernita said...

Quite brilliant. Really.

Kiersten said...

Your stream-of-consciousness makes me wonder what your consciousness is like.

When I try to write stuff like this I feel like I am taking myself way too seriously, but it works when you do it.

I would prefer a little less suicide imagry though...lest we all worry.

Whirlochre said...

No need to worry, K — I'm not going anywhere.

Kiersten said...

Good. That's the problem with being anonymous. It's all so...anonymous.