When you spend all your time reading and not writing, you find you are more prone to forgetting than remembering. Ideas oscillate like a soft melody in your head, moving in and out of audibility. Writing is a process. A process: a word I tend to forget when I think about my writing life. A pain that grips so tightly on my abdomen that I always fold. But the process, if one persists through the pain, is also the source of joy. The world melts away. Time, which we are drilled to conscientiously keep track of, becomes irrelevant when your mind arranges letters and words into sentences - weaving them like different colored threads into a tapestry. I wonder if all the tapestries woven by women in earlier times were all thought through and planned before they begun at the loom. Or if they just sat and wove, for hours, trusting where the thread was taking them.
To remember, to forget, and to remember again. This is why it is important to write. Time. Time is evidence of death. Without an end would one have to keep time? Eventually we all will disappear and writing is fighting for our reappearance. Even in life this happens. Everyday, which I punch in the Kronos time clock at work I disappear. And it is only when I punch out that I reappear again. And I begin to fight against my own disappearance again. To use what whatever time I have left to sit at my loom, take the threads of ideas, and weave.
One of the threads I stumbled into has reminded me of an urgency I often forget:
"If I have communicated anything to you it is the absolute urgency to write yourself, your body, your own experience. The absolute necessity for you to write yourself in order to understand yourself, in order to become yourself. I ask you to fight against your own disappearance. To refuse to self-immolate. Or to launch yourself as a burning, glorious spectacle into outer space. To scratch yourself out and begin again, to die an resurrect."
So: appear not disappear, remember not forget, and write not fade out.