Spun


On writing, Duras says that it is not translation, nor transition, nor passing from one state to another --

It's a matter of deciphering something already there, something you've already done in the sleep of your life, in its organic rumination, unbeknown to you.


Proust says the same thing --

As for the inner book of unknown symbols (symbols carved in relief they might have been, which my attention, as it explored my unconscious, groped for and stumbled against and followed the contours of, like a diver exploring the ocean-bed), if I tried to read them no one could help me with any rules, for to read them was an act of creation in which no one can do our work for us, or even collaborate with us. How many for this reason turn aside from writing!


This deciphering -- it must begin from a place of desire -- wanting to understand or to communicate the experience (to oneself or to another). Also some recognition of the thing experienced as worthy of recognition and communication.

I wonder about these past months of mine -- when I have learned to become so wary and skeptical of ideas. It becomes harder and harder to take the risk -- to do the sleepwalking that Pursewarden spoke of to Clea in Durrell's book -- no willingness to commit to a set of unknown symbols and spell them out. Or rather to commit only so far as to hover lightly over something unseen and unspoken. That's what this web-writing does, it allows for lightness and frivolity and a way of being cavalier. It's good for that, but it encourages the lightness too much -- allows me to stay away from committing to something - from seizing upon something worth deciphering and believing in it -- taking it up and seeing how I might unravel the filaments and spin them to their lengths.