meta-writing as self-begetting authorship, winter 2015—summer 2018
You may have thought I’m serendipitous in stringing together kindreds of ‘potpourri’, but it’s more than making a mélange of kindreds. I commonly write in view of a miscellany of notes that are brought together by some centripetal spirit of thematic belonging, a topical gravity that’s tropographic—a sense of topogeny that is tropological.
To wit: A mass of notes that became discards for writing the middle of “dear casual tourist” have a kindredness that could be named as some charactological (better than ‘characterological’) cohering.
Who is that guy?:
I feel as if I’m disappearing from communicative life for a year, just to concentrate totally on project development: I seldom turn on my phone, don’t want to “hang out.” I’m free to develop as I please, without worry of keeping near to mind those who don’t bother to show up (impulsively call, frivolously write—Thank you!)
I’m turning away from appreciated practicality for awhile: away from downland, discursive engagement, back up to processes of The Work [here adding ‘downland’ to my earlier note, to give better sense to “back up”; and changing eartlier “process for” now to “processes of,” because I’m using the note for a posting that, ha, might be read].
I’m withdrawing into a serenity of my own world—disappearing into my presumptions of no audience.
I never sought audience. I just love writing. And I share some of that online—in my own time—living in one’s Silence Prospect: the integrity of the time, care, The Project, lovely working.
It’s all about what I enjoy, “regardless” of whether or not anyone else is reading or really cares. “I love conceptual adventuring. I don’t mind being more or less alone in this…. Well, I’m far from wholly alone....”
“You go into the artist’s studio. You don’t blame her for the mess. You cherish the abode. It’s where joys happen”—living inside my head (as it were), me and the writing, not really in the tangible world. Thus my apartment is as it is, funny mess I must give time to sooner than later—which I resent, mildly: That’s life, right?: being embodied.
The topography of dispositionality is a keynote of mental health.
I Begin by retaining a sense of humor about travails in traveling, like: finding more viscosity in creative process than was exuberantly anticipated as [if there was to be an] easy rate of progress. But authentically lived treks must keep fidelity to the timing of the trek’s ownmost emergence (or self-disclosure).
Tedium of the project (whatever, in today’s version: routing article urls/pdfs) advanced by pleasant anticipation of a stage completion, in light of prevailing desire to finish the project.
So, I turn away to return to that which will derivatively be here as “some presence” (with less pretense).
So, Ulysses’ coming home allows the adventure to be relativized and appropriated to one’s basis for having ventured in the first place.
Yes, know home for the first time, in a sense (as already always globally emplaced and relative), yet to thereby modernly know The Odyssey Experience [not there a trite link to Homer] as relative to a life.
Why I don’t mind that you don’t respond to this authorship
If I can feel forgotten, I feel free from reader expectations (which are my conjured anxieties anyway).
You want an author who feels invulnerable? I could recommend a few, but I wouldn’t in the first place want such a reader here to refer elsewhere. Better you just go away.
One may be undaunted by others’ misunderstanding or non-receptiveness inasmuch as one is highly confident about one’s stances (presumably for good reason), more or less regardless of the failure of others to find one’s reasons acceptable yet.
They said, “There are enough persons in my life, enough influences. You’re a curiosity, but there’s quite enough already in the world to satisfy curiosity. There is too little time for all that’s worth one’s time.
And they said, “Why read you? Can you, writer, contribute to my stature? Do you have stature enough to be worth my time? If you were already famous, writing under an unknown pseudonym for the sake of some integrity of the text, ensured by concealing your author-ity—showing authorship that insists upon the integrity of the text itself—I’d be inspired by your humility, and awakened to your textuality. But as it stands, I’m sorry; I’m really very busy.”
He said, “O, don’t worry. That’s quite OK. I love what I’m doing.
“Good for you. Now please—”
“Sure. Besides, if I am such an authorship, you wouldn’t know it, for the text would speak for itself without decorous frame. You’d have to already be drawn to the thing itself, as if anonymously orphaned, like a possible treasure at a flea market.
“Flowers grow—flow-ers know—regardless of whether they’re seen, and this is so lovely: to be elation of flowing.”