Tuesday, March 13, 2007


This is one of those posts where I'm not exactly what I'm going to write. Rather, I'm allowing my fingers to caress each key, to follow the flow of the board until I get into a rhythm and then see what it reveals. I find that when I write, I eventually get into some kind of trance state and the words begins to write themselves. I even find I write more accurately - that is, my fingers become more sure of their stepping and I don't even have to correct my work as I go along. I read something by J.G. Ballard the other day, where he said that no truly great novel has so far been written on a computer.
I bet someone said that a couple of years after the invention of the typewriter.
My own handwriting is utterly appalling - quite frequently, even I can't make it out. For that reason, I feel far more comfortable with a keyboard. I find it slows me down a bit, allows me pause for my fingers to catch up with the ever turbulent flow of my mind, until there's that sudden moment where they're working wonderfully well in unison and my conscious mind can sit back and marvel at what the rest of me is doing. The nearest analogy I can find is when I'm talking in Turkish at full flow, and the bit of me that's still thinking in English starts to give a running commentary:
' Hot Damn, boy, look at you do that whole Turkish thing! That's right, you're even getting the body gestures right!'
And so on.
It's something to do with an act of abstraction from the quotidian mental acts we all undergo, I suppose; A movement towards another place within that is somehow a sanctum sanctorum (Is that right?) from the usual experience. When I write at length, I withdraw further and further into this, a garden within the mind, that becomes wilder, denser, lusher the more I wander in. And the more I go in, the less I desire to come out again, yet at the same time I am aware of this other voice, my own director's commentary as it were, giving his opinion over what I'm doing.
Strangely, when I'm exploring this fecund jungle of my own imagination, he is largely positive; It is only when I'm stuck on the outside, lurching and limping through the mundanity, that he becomes an overwhelmingly negative voice, whether it be about me, or the apparent idiocies, folies and stupidities of others. Why this should be, I don't know, yet there it is.

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