Could it finally be hello?

Blessed Damozel,

I wish I could write in the dark. When I’m lying in bed, during the blackest hours of the night, I have the finest thots, and this is what lures me to get up and begin to confess to you in my diary. But the moment I turn on the light, all my fine thots flee, and I am left with these blaring bright sentences, all of which I disavow. “Well, why not keep a notebook at the side of your bed,” you say, “and note down your fancies exactly as they occur, when the room’s still black?” I answer: Your idea would never work, for even if I were to record my best imaginations in purest darkness, eventually the sun would rise and flood the world with its glare, and I would look at my notebook to read the words that I had composed during the night, and the page would present me with a picture of the Devil; and the image would prove self-animated, and it’d fly off before I could catch it under a bell jar.

*

Here now, I ran into a problem. After typing that last word above, I took a break from composing this entry and looked back upon the previous pages of this journal and re-read my latest entries here: the last few posts that I posted upon this blog. This is not a wise thing to do, when you’re in the midst of producing your next entry; especially right at the beginning. I hadn’t read those posts over since I dreamt them. So when I wrote “re-read” maybe I shoulda deleted the prefix (“re-”), cuz I was unfamiliar with most of what I encountered; it was like beholding my own blog posts for the very first time. Here I’ll list their titles, just to bore you to tears:

• I read “Lazy thots on the trustworthiness of our news”, which contains, at the end, an apology for my decision to abandon bookmaking for bloggery;
• I read “Before floor finish and wall fix, or: Nothing here yet”, which contains my retranslation of the Xian hymn “How Great Thou Art”... by the way, I regret writing the lie “If our soul is God, then who is the ‘thee’ she serenades? My answer is Endlessness: the Everlasting; what the kabbalists call EIN SOF.” —yuck! I wish I had defined “thee”, the song’s recipient, simply as every living individual. Cuz I’d rather invoke the thot of my divine self hymning to YOU, directly. And, from that holy concept “living”, I do not exclude the rocks & stones & trees; for I think of Wordsworth’s Lucy as alive, even as more alive than alive – ULTRALIVING – as tho she hath usurped EIN SOF, any time I chant aloud

• Also I read “I wanna title this blog something like...”, which is really three blogs in one – I mashed my trinity together cuz I hated the first two parts initially; but now that I go back and review what I wrote, I like those beginning efforts much better than that final third… I now hate that final third; except the very tail end, where I tell the reader what movies to view and which books to read in order to become a political junkie just like me;
• I read “Reluctantly fulfilling my obligation to society”, which features my first ever Pro Journal Entry, which I imagine that I got PAID in COLD CASH to compose (all of my blog entries are entirely non-monetized, so that I may remain as open as possible to accepting bribes from the SPIRIT; that is why this concept is humorous); and the essay closes with pretend quotations from a number of mall shoppers who give their own personal answers to my question “Who is Jesus, and what does he mean to you?”;
• lastly I read “Jest or blunder”, whose obligatory image depicts the actual hands of Mark Twain protruding thru the vacant face of a demon; and this vision is captioned absurdly “Electric Toothbrush”; and the body text of the entry deals with questions of cooperation & organization: I posit that just as atoms combine to form cells, and cells combine to form bodies; so we humans can, if we please, combine to form superstructures, one of which is GOD, whereas another is the modern CORPORATION; and, alas, the latter seems to be the route we’re choosing to travel, this time around.

So, anyway, my point is that I read over the stuff that I’d posted most recently. Now, when you read over your own compositions, you can either love them or hate them. There is no other possible reaction: your choice MUST be binary. Now, once you get a chance to look at something you’ve written, in a relaxed state of mind, IF you decide that you hate your own words, THEN you become charged with resolve, which is a type of mad energy that fuels further production: you exclaim to yourself “I hate that shit that I wrote; now I’m determined to write a million more words down on paper until I strike upon something worthwhile; for I will not be bested by my foeman, Mr. Doom, who owns this universe.”

OK, so that’s what happens when you decide that you HATE your own creation. But what happens when you LOVE what you wrote?

Well, then you freeze: you stand stock still, breathless & shocked: now all your thots stop. You come down with what they call writer’s block. Cuz there’s nothing worse than succeeding at what you attempted. It’s like paying off a debt: now you’re EVEN with your loan officer, and there’s no further reason to continue your relationship. The love-fest stops, in the name of a balance of powers.

To summarize: If you screw up and do a bad job and hate your own writing, then there’s a reason to proceed: you’ve gotta change the badness, revise it and make it all right. But if it’s perfect as it is, the whole meaning of your existence hums to a stasis: you only wanna float, exactly where you are, and bask in the splendor of your accomplishment. (This is why the LORD remains in his cloud, up in heaven, and never comes down to stop any murders or rapes.)

So when I skimmed over all those entries of mine, listed above, my reaction was adoration, even idolization: I looked favorably upon my creation. Which is a good thing in itself (for who wouldn’t be pleased with the fact of a job well done?) but it’s bad for further production; cuz now that I’m satisfied, I have no further desires. So this entry is basically one giant admission that now I have writer’s block!—I have nothing more to say, thus I won’t be posting an entry today. Even worse, I fear that, if this sense of satisfaction continues, it’s possible that I may never write another blog post again.