tzigane

Only real learning is self-discovered, self appropriated.

One does not find solitude, one creates it. Solitude is created alone. I have created it. Because I decided that here was where I should be alone, that I would be alone to write books. It happened this way. I was alone in this house. I shut myself in — of course, I was afraid. And then I began to love it. This house became the house of writing. My books come from this house. From this light as well, and from the garden. From the light reflecting off the pond. It has taken me twenty years to write what I just said.
 Marguerite Duras Writing 


Ordinary people seem not to realize that those who really apply themselves in the right way to philosophy are directly and of their own accord preparing themselves for dying and death. If this is true, and they have actually been looking forward to death all their lives, it would of course be absurd to be troubled when the thing comes for which they have so long been preparing and looking forward.

Socrates, the Phaedo 

Is it true that “learning how to die” is what all philosophy really is?

(Source: heteroglossia)


I don’t want to ask why, you can always ask why and always get no answer —could I manage to surrender to the expectant silence that follows a question without an answer?
Agua Viva Clarice Lispector 


The revolt of the slaves in morals begins in the very principle of resentment becoming creative and giving birth to values — a resentment experienced by creatures who, deprived as they are of the proper outlet of action, are forced to find their compensation in an imaginary revenge.
The Genealogy of Morals Nietzsche 


I am interested in impossible embodiments. I wish to write; I wish to write about certain things that cannot be held. I want to create a sea of freely-flowing words of no definite form and shape waves of fluent exactness.
Virginia Woolf, Passionate Apprentice: The Early Journals, 1897-1909 

(Source: fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)


I’ve always had a journal. They are kept in chronological order on their own bookshelf. Before each birthday I read through them all — an attempt to rediscover who I was in order to understand who I am; a sort of Joan Didion-esque take on the journal; “to keep on nodding terms with our past selves,” kind of deal.  

My incomplete nature is reflected in the way I keep my journals. I usually abandon them before they are finished. They are like the exoskeleton of the many selves that arise within me. Each time I molt, a new journal is needed.

This past summer, while wandering around a second hand bookshop in New York, as I usually did after my internship; I felt an impulse. I was suddenly drawn to this bright teal hardcover notebook. I wanted it until I discovered it was a blank journal—- it had no lines. It was a rule I had: never own a blank notebook. This rule was made out of fear. I have always been terrified of the blank page, the way it can stare at you and mock the nullity of your pen. But something inside me, this new self,  was determined to free my mind from all the lines and barriers. This new self wanted the ability to roam, and to make mistakes, and to move backwards, and to replay, and to travel. 

You always think you need lines— until you discover how much fun it is without them. So I bought the notebook. And, for the first time in all my years of journaling, I have been kicked out of the journal. For the first time, the pages have run out before I was ready to leave. Within those pages between the teal hardcover object, I have never lived more fully, openly, or happily. I see my growth, expansion, and exploration teeming off the pages. Of course there were rough moments, but this journal served more as a celebration of my strengths rather than the usual reveling in self-doubt.

One thing I did differently was I allowed people to enter my life. I made room for them on these pages. Whenever I would go out to a bar or a party, once I grew tired of practicing the art of small talk,  I would usually find myself bored. When that happened I would hand the person my journal, open to a blank page, and give them the opportunity to mark something: a quote, a drawing, a thought, a memory, a problem. It was a way to get to know a person in a setting that isn’t conducive to doing so. It’s now the way I like to get to know everyone. Within these pages, I have drawings from new and old people I have met who have moved me in unchangeable ways. Some who have within the pages gone from stangers to family to enemies to family again.  

Since my journal has filled up and been completed; I, who am usually incomplete and unfinished,  have become confused. Not just confused, but completely uncentered, like a wanderer moving in all sorts of directions without any anchor. I have bought 3 journals, and even made a beautiful one out of cardboard and stationary with the help of a book-binder. None of them feel like home. I feel like a stranger in my own body, a feeling that hash’t crept into my flesh in a long time. 

Everyone in me is a bird.
I am beating all my wings.
They wanted to cut you out
but they will not.
They said you were immeasurably empty
but you are not.
They said you were sick unto dying
but they were wrong.
You are singing like a school girl.
You are not torn.

Sweet weight,
in celebration of the woman I am
and of the soul of the woman I am
and of the central creature and its delight
I sing for you. I dare to live.
Hello, spirit. Hello, cup.
Fasten, cover. Cover that does contain.
Hello to the soil of the fields.
Welcome, roots.

Each cell has a life.
There is enough here to please a nation.
It is enough that the populace own these goods.
Any person, any commonwealth would say of it,
“It is good this year that we may plant again
and think forward to a harvest.
A blight had been forecast and has been cast out.”
Many women are singing together of this:
one is in a shoe factory cursing the machine,
one is at the aquarium tending a seal,
one is dull at the wheel of her Ford,
one is at the toll gate collecting,
one is tying the cord of a calf in Arizona,
one is straddling a cello in Russia,
one is shifting pots on the stove in Egypt,
one is painting her bedroom walls moon color,
one is dying but remembering a breakfast,
one is stretching on her mat in Thailand,
one is wiping the ass of her child,
one is staring out the window of a train
in the middle of Wyoming and one is
anywhere and some are everywhere and all
seem to be singing, although some can not
sing a note.

Sweet weight,
in celebration of the woman I am
let me carry a ten-foot scarf,
let me drum for the nineteen-year-olds,
let me carry bowls for the offering
(if that is my part).
Let me study the cardiovascular tissue,
let me examine the angular distance of meteors,
let me suck on the stems of flowers
(if that is my part).
Let me make certain tribal figures
(if that is my part).
For this thing the body needs
let me sing
for the supper,
for the kissing,
for the correct
yes.

In Celebration of My Uterus  - Anne Sexton 


Socrates, The Three-Year-Old Rhetorician.

While reading Plato’s Gorgias, I kept finding myself fighting this strange yet strong urge of picturing Socrates as a three-year-old child, a child boiling over with curiosity and asking questions ad-nauseum. Much like conversations genuinely had with children, within his onslaught of questions, there would always be remarkable moments of insight: seeing things with fresh eyes, and arranging the world in unusual ways. Mostly, I felt as if his questions were goading me to agree with him just so he could pull the rug from right out under me, similar to the way children get you hold your tongue while saying “I live on a pirate ship,” ——except then Socrates would then shame me for cursing.  He was running circles around me, using laces of logic to turn my mind into knots of contradiction.  He left me taunted and torn between his genuine child-like curiosity and the idea that he’s just possibly the ultimate rhetorician (the very thing he was arguing against) . 

Writing Exercise #1a: Slaughterhouse 5 - Kurt Vonnegut

My writing has turned to shit. So, I’ve decided to remedy this by reading a particular work of fiction I enjoy for 20 minutes before bed and then writing  500 words about it in the morning. It could be an analysis of the writing style, a story in mimicking the writing style, or a free response to whatever the reading has sparked in my imagination. I’m doing this with hope that this exercise will discipline not only my writing but my reading as well. Warning: I am very rusty, so this post will be rough, but like getting beck into the habit of exercising, starting is always the hardest hurdle to jump. 

Last night, I continued reading Slaughterhouse 5 by Kurt Vonnegut. His imagination is an interesting one to dwell in, to say the least. I picked up in the asylum where Valencia is visiting Billy Pilgrim, and Billy drags Eliot Rosewater into their conversation. Rosewater, an off beat recovering war veteran, is prominently characterized by his obsession with an esoteric sci-fi writer, Kilgore Trout.  (I also want to make note of the great character naming skills Vonnegut possess: Valencia, Billy Pilgrim, Eliot Rosewater, Kilgore Trout, something about them— something I need to look into further. He captures something very precise, yet not obvious, about who the character is through their names.) The book of discussion is titled The Gospel from Outer Space. Religion is a delicate topic to talk about, especially when writing fiction, because one doesn’t know who their reader is, their religion, tradition or background and also, one doesn’t want the readers to stop reading. This tactic Vonnegut uses is brilliant: the tool of a fictional sci-fi book to explore some ideas about Christianity, that otherwise, if explicitly laid out,  would be controversial. He does this by dragging religion into the same realm of fiction and fantasy. Once he establishes that, Vonnegut can go on making his off-beat, radical Vonnegut claims ad-nasuem, because they are being spit out in a digestible way for the reader to swallow, regardless of the religion readers are from. (Most conservative readers would have already been put off at this point in the novel anyway.) As an alien from outer-space, he observes that the a serious study of Christianity in search of why “Christains found it so easy to be cruel.”  The reason driving their cruelty can be pinned on the New Testemant. The Gospels main lesson being: “Before you kill somebody, make absolutely sure he isn’t well connected.” I found this argument hysterical, and couldn’t not stop from myself from actually laughing out loud through this entire scene.  

My twenty minutes are up, however I will just make some fragmented notes. 

NOTES ABOUT VONNEGUTS WRITING STYLE:

- Billy “says” barely anything. His statements are usually limited to one word or brief responses, and almost never says anything without being prompted first by a question. The words he vocalizes are like the tip of the iceberg that is his mind. Deep under the waters of his subconscious, his thoughts are vastly more expansive and complex than his vocalized words make him appear to be.

- This observation becomes obvious when we are with Billy in the most intimate situation with another human: making love with newly wedded wife Valencia on their honeymoon. After sex, they are both naked lying in bed and she continually is making statements and asking questions that he is responding with only one word answers.  However, since the reader has access to his thought as well as his words, we know this is just the surface. Valencia nails it on the head when she makes the statement:

“I look at you sometimes … and I get a funny feeling that you’re full just full of secrets.’

‘I’m not,’ said Billy. This was a lie, of course. He hadn’t told anybody about all the time-traveling he’s done, about Tralfamadore and so on.”

She captures Billy’s essence in this one statement:

“You must have secrets about the war. Or, not secrets, I guess, but things you don’t want to talk about.”

“Or, not secrets,” is the key. He avoids things he doesn’t want to talk about by turning them into fantasy: aliens, time-travel, Tralfamdore.

-Vonnegut also uses very simple language to deliver difficult things to swallow about war, life, violence. 

- Another observation is that when Billy time travels his physical states always remains the same. He has to take a leak while he’s at the hotel in Cape Anne with Valencia. When he goes through the bathroom door and “time-travels” into the war prison, he still has to take a leak. He no longer is on his honey moon, but in Dresden, and yet he still has to pee. Billy physical state stays the same while his mental state changes. 

The Tangential: How to Treat Social Media like a Video Game for Maximum Fun ↘

thetangential:

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You are drunk and also on amphetamines while walking through Times Square. You overhear people talking in groups as you wander. You do not know any of the people around you, but, being chemically uninhibited and amped up, you decide to walk into the nearest groups of people and join in their…